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vaokses · 1 month

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A ghost to its haunt (Pirtir, Ch.2)

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Pairing: Aegon x Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader

Summary: You set off ahead of your family towards King's Landing, attempting to escape the restlessness that overtook you as the day your betrothal is to be announced draws nearer. You find yourself a witness to what has become of the people you once knew as the King summons you all for dinner.

Word Count: 6.2k

Warnings: Topic of arranged/forced marriage. Viserys is a terrible father, but you knew that already. Helaena is a dragonrider and has a close bond with Dreamfyre, the show can fuck right off.

A/N: Very little of Aegon here, I'm sorry. I promise next chapter will be more exciting. I hope you enjoy!

Title is from a diary entry by Virginia Woolf, "I come home - and I have a feeling returning like a ghost to its haunt."

Your hand caresses bronze scales as you come to stand on solid ground, and you find yourself fighting the instinct to command Vermithor to take you to the skies again as you face the awaiting party.

You had hoped that if you were to arrive days before you were set to do so with the rest of your family, they wouldn’t have enough time to make a spectacle out of your arrival.

Then again, a century-old dragon is perhaps not the best means of transport if you intend to catch them off guard.

And so there they stand, the Lord Hand, his daughter the Queen, and the three of her children that still live in King’s Landing.

You aren’t sure what it is you were expecting, but it certainly was not this. You seem to remember them wrong. All of them.

The spirited even if demure Queen of your memories, of angry eyes and fingers gripping a knife and demanding retribution; has left in her place a shadow of herself, a woman of tired eyes that offers an almost sorrowful smile as she greets you. The anger though, the anger remains.

The boy you last saw fighting back tears and putting on a brave face as the maesters treated his wound, stands tall as a man of his own right, wound hidden away behind an eyepatch and any of the humanity of your youth absent in his piecing stare.

Aegon is no less a stranger. Though a mask of him remains, much like the casts of corpses the families of Old Valyria used to make to keep in their homes, the boy you knew once, capricious and uncaring about the legacy or future of any of it; seems to have died since you last saw him, leaving behind something you don’t entirely recognize. Gone is the heedlessness and imprudence of your shared youth, leaving in place something like wariness, like resignation.

He seemed more spirited, livelier, when you were younger. You suppose you didn’t see then that he has his mother’s eyes -the anger, yes, but also the sorrow-, you didn’t notice then that he too shares in what seems a trait of his family of being uneasy in their own skin.

Your eyes meet, and though you find yourself with so much to say, you were taught better than to speak your mind, you know better by now than to let your heart get ahead of yourself. And neither the reproaches of it being his fault that you are to once again lose your home, nor anything else, something perhaps more foolish and far more careless, leave your lips.

Aegon looks back at you, eyes slightly wide in uncertainty and something else, something like expectation, and though for a moment you think he is to say something, lips parted forming for a moment in what you swear is the beginning of your name; he adjusts in his place, and looks away from you.

Finally, in a sea of strangers, there is a familiar face. Helaena looks familiar, feels familiar. Big eyes are fixed on you, though when your own gaze finds hers, she looks away. A smile, kind and warm and exactly as you remember, curves at her lips, and it gives you the impulse -the courage, the strength- you needed to approach them.

The pleasantries leave your lips with ease after you exchange your greetings, “Such a welcome was not necessary, though I am grateful for your kindness.”

“What was possible considering the…short notice of your arrival. It is essential for the people of King’s Landing to see you are welcome here, Princess.” The Hand states, each word chosen carefully. They can’t afford for the people and the Great Houses to think you a hostage, is what he means.

It is Aemond who steps forward then, before you can even utter an answer, hands joined behind his back, head held high even if for a moment it faintly bows in greeting. It seems he gauges you for a moment, as who plans his next step on a board game, eye narrowing before he adds,

“So as not to let them confuse your standing with your brothers’.”

You swear you can hear Otto Hightower heave a sigh at his grandson’s words.

Resigned, but with practiced familiarity after over a year spent in hostile territory, you fix your stance and return his words in kind.

“Surely my brothers are as welcome here as I am.”

“Hm. It just happens it is not a fair comparison, between my…dear nephews and you.”

You are as much of a bastard as your brothers, and you are certain he knows, for his mother is no idiot, and must have put together the coincidence of your conception happening during Daemon’s short stay in King’s Landing after your mother and Laenor’s wedding. And anything Alicent knows, she feeds to her sons, or so has Lady Mysaria warned you.

You would rather believe it is the slights your brothers committed against him, and the fraught nature of their relations, what leads him to see them as lesser than you, and not the thinness of their blood. You’d rather deal with vindictiveness than hypocrisy.

“In your eyes, and the eyes of your family, perhaps,” You remind him. “Not the eyes of the people of the Seven Kingdoms. That I can assure you.”

And it is no lie. You didn’t spend twenty months in foreign lands and sleeping in unfamiliar beds, drinking watered-down wine and eating overcooked duck, for your brothers’ legitimacy to be as challenged as it was before.

“It was not the people of the Seven Kingdoms who built this dynasty, niece. Our family did.” He argues, now in your native Valyrian. It pulls at an old part of your heart when Aemond speaks confidently High Valyrian, it makes proud the girl that would let the candles burn until they died out sitting by him and practicing the intricacies of your native tongue.

There’s a hint of a smile playing at your lips, for at his threat that it is the will and power of the men of your bloodline that can set the future of the inheritance, yours or your brothers’, you can answer with a threat of your own,

“No, dragons did.”

As if another part of this conversation, as if to serve as a reminder, Vermithor rumbles a low call, diverting your uncle’s attention to him. A clipped little hm leaves Aemond’s lips as he gazes upon the Bronze Fury, for the first time since you last saw each other in Driftmark years ago.

You feel the slow breath of warm air leaving the old dragon’s nose, it warms your hands, carefully joined behind your back. From the corner of your eye, you see Helaena’s smile at the sight of him, so alike the smile you saw brightening her face the few times you took to the skies together in your youth.

You know, though you dread to, that you are to command Vermithor to leave you behind, to occupy his place in the Dragonpit, but you hesitate.

You first stepped into the Dragonpit many years ago, long before you claimed Vermithor, to meet Dreamfyre, and then Sunfyre, which Aegon insisted you did after hearing his sister had taken you to see her own dragon. You were but children, and the Pit seemed another world entirely, cavernous and strong and other, but now you look upon them and see nothing but stone, carved by men, for men, to soothe themselves thinking they control fire made flesh.

You say nothing, instead turning around and looking into familiar bronze eyes. Vermithor’s answering rumble for a moment seems to imitate the shrill song Silverwing often directs at their eggs, and without another wasted moment he takes to the skies and towards the outskirts of the city, away from the Pit and towards the Kingswood.

“Dreamfyre knows he is here. She has missed them,” Helaena mutters quietly, watching him fly away and shifting in her place, as if the she-dragon’s restlessness is her own. “They were one, once. They should have remained so.”

You hum in agreement, watching the bronze dragon force the clouds to part for him.

“Much like you and I, they were side by side almost since they hatched, no?”

You turn to her with a smile, but the sharp gaze of the Queen keeps you from saying anything else or from deviating your attention from her.

“Princess. You flew here.” Queen Alicent points out, something like accusation lacing her tone.

You refuse to let your smile falter as you look upon the Queen and answer, “Any journey is made more entertaining, not to mention shorter, on dragonback, Your Grace.”

“Eager, then?”

“Restless.”

“Ah,” She nods, dark eyes trailing over your body from head to toe. “Must be why you come dressed for battle, then.”

You wear nothing too different from what any dragonrider would, and of course in your mother’s colors, but you won’t deny the dark chainmail over your sleeves, or the metal corset clinging to the red and black fabric, though subtle, are meant to resemble armor. It was a gift from your half-sister, readied for when your tour had meant to include King’s Landing.

“Dressed for a long flight, nothing more. I’m sure any of your children, all experienced dragonriders, would understand.” You answer, ready to force them into the conversation in order to avoid an ambush.

“A dress does make flying uncomfortable,” Helaena provides, as kind as you remember. Her gaze flickers to you, and she murmurs, so quietly it is almost silent, “A cloak for war, lies for battle.”

___

Merely an hour after your arrival -barely giving you any time to reach the Keep in the carriage, much less settle in what you are told are to be your apartments-they send your handmaidens a message, instructing them to ready you for dinner, for the King is awake and well, and wishes to welcome you as the pain from his illness prevented him from doing this morning.

The two handmaidens assigned to you -as yours must be somewhere in Blackwater Bay by now, making the trip here with the rest of your family- busy themselves without even a prompt from you, one tending to you in your bath and the other setting to straightening and readying the dress you brought with you on Vermithor’s saddle, along with a few other essentials.

You count on your family to bring what else you might need, along with the rest of your clothes and jewels, with them when they arrive on their boats. It is a practiced routine by now, after so long travelling on Vermithor, to take with you only what is most important while a day or two later the rest of the servants bring the rest.

“Is this…common? For my grandsire to attend dinner with all of them?” You ask one of the handmaidens as she brushes a conditioning cream onto your hair.

You do not care about the routines in the Keep, that isn’t why you are asking. You want to know the kind of women they have assigned to serve you, as you did whenever you traveled ahead of your own handmaidens during your tour.

“As any family meets as one for supper, Princess, so does the King’s.”

These girls are terrible liars.

You are surprised to find Princess Helaena waiting outside your apartments when you are leaving them to join supper. She stands tall, expression carefully void of any tells, and greets you with a murmur of your name.

Not your title, not niece, your name. Strange, that you cannot recall the last time your name was preferred, or the last time it was not uttered as a call to heel.

You accept her strange offer and let her walk you to the dining room, handmaidens and Kingsguards in tow.

“You are wearing red.”

“It is our family’s color. We are blood and fire.”

“Mother never makes me wear green.” She comments instead of offering an answer, and it is only at her words that you notice this morning, while her brothers wore dark green -almost black, but you know better-, and her mother vibrant emerald, she wore a soft blue dress with silver details.

“This dress is beautiful, Helaena.” You tell her, admiring the greys and blues of its silk, the various designs embroidered in its sleeves.

She lifts a loose sleeve to show you. Your eyes trail over ling insects of many legs and of odd antennas, before stopping to linger on a spider of red and black.

“I made these.”

“Oh, they are quite impressive,” You admit, reaching for her sleeve but stopping yourself a moment before when the Princess stiffens up at the threat of contact. Lifting your gaze, you await permission, or an explanation perhaps, but Helaena merely looks away. Even if a tad thrown off balance by her reaction, you grant her distance and continue, “Are these…real creatures? I have seen nothing like them before.”

“I copy them from drawings, or descriptions. Grandsire gifts me books that the maesters write about the animals and insects they find in their travels,” She tells you, and for a moment you are sitting with her on the stone steps of Driftmark’s castle on that last night, that last reunion, watching the spider crawling over your hands as she tells you about its origins, about the strings her grandfather pulled to gift her this creature, both of you unaware that your brothers were fighting in the tunnels below. The memory, the unexpected nostalgia that comes with it, catch you off guard long enough that the conversation dies out. After a few beats of silence, your aunt offers, “I’ll teach you, if you want.”

“Oh.”

“To embroider. Not spin.”

“I-I would love to learn, I-…”

“He is my brother,” She interrupts you, big eyes unwavering in their intensity. She speaks with certainty, with purpose, as if these scattered sentences hold just one meaning, “Despite the rest, b-before the rest. He is my brother.”

“I was sent here as a bride, not an assassin. Is this a warning?” You try to jest, but she loses none of the intensity, none of the…anger.

“Yes.” Helaena promises, surprising even herself at the statement, it seems.

Seeming to hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do or how to move, she finally decides to stride into the dining room that awaits you, leaving you behind.

___

Your mother was right. By the Gods, you hate to admit it, but your mother was right. You should have never ridden ahead of them.

The painfully small gathering has arranged you all around a small table, sitting you by the King’s side with Helaena at your other side, while your uncles and the Lord Hand sit across from you in the small table.

Granted, in your travels you scarcely found yourself dining with a family lacking tension, it is almost a condition of noble blood to hate those you share it with, but there is something else to whatever haunts the family that resides in the Keep. Errant, a thought crosses your mind, a gratefulness to your mother to have taken you from here if this was to be the outcome for you as well.

There lingers a lifelessness that reminds you of the marble model your grandsire keeps of Old Valyria, that makes you think of them all as beasts desperately trapped in the brittle stiffness of marble figurines.

The Queen sits as tightly coiled as a spring, jarring tiny movements, almost spasms, as she as she takes her seat next to the King; though her eyes, big and anxious, trail over you all, jumping from person to person like an anxious deer’s. Yet, neither she nor anyone else comments on any of this strangeness. Perhaps this is what is normal for her, for them.

Helaena has made it her mission to fold her napkin into some form or another, hunched over the table to focus on her task, and refuses to deviate her attention from it; while Aegon seems to have made his mission to discover how quickly he can sight the bottom of his cup, and appears to be making faster progress to his goal with each refill from the servants.

And Aemond is making quick progress to losing his other eye, by your hand this time, if he doesn’t cease in repeating this maddening little trick with his knife. He throws it a tiny distance so it embeds on the table, then pulls it out. Repeats this once more. Then spins the round-handled knife on his finger, one, two, three times. Back to the table, and the cycle starts again. Thud, thud, swish, swish, swish.

“I hear you came here on your dragon. How was your journey here, Princess?” Otto Hightower asks, and whether he intended to or not he has thrown you a rope to pull yourself out of the waters. After more than a year of travel and ceaseless talks with nobles, of endless dinners and constant lies and embellishments, an exchange like this is as natural to you as it is for Daemon to wield Dark Sister.

Thud, thud, swish, swish, swish.

“Quite wet, I’m afraid, my Lord Hand,” You answer, accepting a small pork tart a servant offers you. Nodding your thanks, you continue, “Vermithor enjoys the rain, and cares not for my opinion on it. If he sees a storm nearby, he’ll take us to fly right through it.”

Thud, thud, swish, swish, swish. By all the Gods, what use have Lord Confessors for instruments of torture when Aemond and his Gods-damned knife trick exist?

“I told you before, my girl,” King Viserys muses with a wry chuckle. “The idea that we control them is…is an illusion.”

“We control them no more than we control our own children,” You tell your grandsire, agreeable smile, as is expected, on your lips. “Or our parents.”

He seems to gather a deeper meaning from your words, and where you merely meant to compare the veteran dragon that claimed you as his rider and your parents’ own protectiveness, your grandsire takes it as a reproach of sorts, based on his downturned mouth, on his furrowed brow.

“I…I know you must still resent my decisions. I myself have come to regret them, with the years,” You are certain your confusion must be clear in your face, but he pushes forward with a grimace of pain as he leans closer. “But you are mine own, Rhaenyra. In my eyes, know that none of them could even compare, you must kn-…”

Queen Alicent interrupts him with a quiet whisper of his name and her hand resting on his shoulder, but you hear the unspoken words as if a dragon had roared them, as does everyone in the room, you are certain.

You venture to look to your right and find Helaena hunched over the table, both elbows resting besides her plate, and fiddling with her napkin, still attempting to fold it into some shape or another, and unaware of or unwilling to react to her father’s words. But you notice the way she has made herself smaller, the way her shoulders are hunched up almost to her ears, and you feel your heart break a little.

Prince Aemond is still relentlessly toying with the knife, but where the movements were practiced now they have a certain jitteriness to them, as if the repetitive motions are no longer the result of idleness, but of restlessness. It reminds you of the anxious flicks of Vermithor’s tail when he grows agitated.

The only one immobile is Aegon.

He is as still as a stone statue, arms extended and gripping the edges of the table as if catching himself from standing up -from fleeing? Or fighting?-. His eyes -by the Gods, he truly has his mother’s eyes-, wide in shock and shame and something older than himself, remain trained on the table before him.

A breath, stuttered and shallow, and his gaze lifts to his father. Pain, disgust, and somewhere in them you could swear there is also rage. You’ve seen trapped wolves with that look, you’ve seen cornered snakes with that look.

“Rhaenyra isn’t here, my love,” Alicent tells the King, “She will join us in a day’s time, to announce her daughter’s betrothal to Aegon. Remember?”

At the reminder, as quick as a soldier standing to attention, as instinctively as if a command had been issued, Aegon’s eyes flicker to you, only to find you already looking at him. The minuscule smile he offers you is one of lips pressed into a thin line, it is bitter, it is defiant in the face of humiliation, and it is terribly sad.

Cravenly, foolishly, you find yourself looking away. You turn to the King instead.

“Yes, of…of course,” There’s clarity in Viserys’ eyes and his mind for a moment before the pain or the remedy for it seems to dull it once more. “Forgive me, child. You do look a mirror of your mother.”

Your smile is a grimace but still sweet enough for your grandsire to answer with one in kind, but you find yourself stuck with no path forward, with no idea on what to make of this. What you know for certain however, is that you will forbid your handmaidens from ever again braiding your hair in the same manner your mother wears it.

“When she came of age, I was drowning in an ever-growing sea of letters and gifts, proposals and requests for her hand,” He reminisces, nostalgia as intoxicating to his senses as the strongest of wines. “I’m sure it was no different when you did.”

By the Gods, you want this conversation to be over, you have wanted for few things more fervently than an end to this uncomfortable and dreadful affair.

Stiffly, carelessly, you answer, “I wouldn’t know, I refused to hear of it.”

“Ah.” The King concedes, leaning back, disappointment and something impossibly close to grief clouding his gaze.

With a deep breath, through gritted teeth, you force yourself to add, “W-Which she tells me she often also did, when she was my age.”

“She resisted my every attempt to find her a match, as I’m sure she has told you,” He says, not wasting a moment to return to the bittersweet draw of memories. He lifts his cane to aim the ivory dragon your way with a smile on his lips that almost makes him have the healthier and rounder face of the grandsire you remember from your youth. Almost. “And I hear you resisted as well, and set off in your tour to make your own choice. You inherited her beauty and her temperament.”

But you didn’t inherit her temperament, and you don’t look like her. And though you love her, you aren’t like her, in your faults and in your virtues.

You understand, however, that it is yet another mask, another face. Some will wish to see your mother’s daughter and nothing more, and so you know that if you aim to win -and you do- that is the face you ought to show.

“I can only hope, grandsire.”

“It does warm this old man’s heart to know you walk willingly into this union, child,” Willingly? Your nails dig like claws onto your thighs, and from the corner of your eye you notice Helaena stop in her folding of the damn napkin and turn her gaze to you. “Despite the sacrifice it demands from you, despite the kind of man you must marry.”

He hasn’t said his son’s name. Hasn’t even looked at him since dinner started.

Now that you think about it, you doubt he has looked upon any of his children at all tonight.

And he hasn’t looked at you, not really. Not without seeing the face of the daughter he lost, the daughter he failed.

And though you ache to tell the King that were the odds to be even slightly more in your favor you would feed Aegon to Vermithor without hesitation, not in virtue of who he is but instead who he must become; and though you know what you must answer with is gratefulness for the recognition of your sacrifice, agreeable demeanor and a sweet smile; it is an old instinct, older than the one learned during your family’s self-imposed exile to Dragonstone, what decides your next words.

“It is no sacrifice,” You tell him, lie coming naturally to you, a skill in no small part Aegon helped you develop, with all the times in your youth that you lied to cover for him. “As you might remember, we were quite close, all of us. I am glad to return here, and I could ask for no better match.”

He knows you are lying. He is old and dying but he knows you are lying.

At least your grandsire remains as you remember him, and will take the comfort of an empty lie over the difficult reality of truth. He smiles, a sentencing.

“That is good to hear, sweet girl. It gives me hope that our House will remain united, able to withstand what tribulations are to come.”

“As it should. Only a dragon can kill another. Our House is invulnerable as long as it remains one,” You agree, as is expected, as is demanded. It is unbefitting, untoward, unthinkable, to have you admit you have often thought about it all burning, breaking, crumbling. To admit you have often wished for it. “I am honored to do as expected from me, and uphold the family, the crown.”

“You possess an admirable sense of duty, of sacrifice, Princess,” The Queen compliments, to which you know you must answer with a smile. Elbows leaning on the table, Alicent rests her chin on the back of her joined hands and asks, “Did you inherit that from your mother also?”

The smile, as false as a vow made in wine, falls from your lips instantly.

The Hand clears his throat, straightening in his chair, and at her direct attack there is not the calculating, almost proud look in his eye that was there the night she wielded a knife against your mother. He looks tired, disappointed and irked, but mostly tired. The look in his eyes reminds you of the Dragonkeepers in charge of herding the hatchlings.

“We will cease with these…these quarrels at once. Otherwise, our dinners, and our lives, will feel entirely too long,” It steals the ground from under your feet, the breath from your lungs, to hear him say such a thing. A lifetime. “Prince Daeron sent word that you were able to meet with him in Oldtown during your travels, Princess.”

Once again, The Hand saves you all, and thankfully diverts your attention from your own spiraling thoughts.

“Yes, my Lord. He and Ser Gwayne were kind enough to take me on a few outings and show me around. As beautiful a city as I ever saw.” You tell him, and though the answer is practiced and instinctual, it is no lie. The most innocuous street a thousand years old, every stone that makes up its castle witness to a hundred battles.

“It is a wonder.” Otto agrees.

You should bite your tongue, until it bleeds if you must, you know you should. But you didn’t inherit your mother’s temperament, and you want to remind them. Foolishly, recklessly, you want to remind them that you do not run when cornered.

So you add, “One must thank the Gods that your ancestor had the good sense to bend the knee to Aegon the Conqueror. It would have been a shame for such a wonder, such a House, to burn.”

“How fortunate the Hightowers are, then,” Aemond drums a short little beat with his fingers on the table, drawing the attention to himself. “That of the dragons capable of such destruction, only Vhagar remains.”

“Yes, marvelous creature that she is. Yet long past her prime,” You retort. “In all her might, Vhagar is a relic of days sadly gone from us.”

“Hm.” Another drum of his fingers on the table, and though he is still a stranger, you notice the clear tell of anger on him, a twitch on his lip, the slightest widening of his eye. You’ve seen Dragonkeepers with decades of experience burned to ash for the simple mistake of not heeding the creature’s warnings.

You will gain nothing from antagonizing him, and while you may amuse yourself by prodding to see what it is that makes him tick, you are aware Aemond remains a weapon you ought to be careful not to see turned at you.

In your months travelling through Westeros, entertaining conversations with Lords and Ladies from the most brilliant to the dullest, from the most hostile to the meekest, you have learned almost everyone has exposed nerves. Most are aware of them, and attempt to guard them, as you yourself have attempted to guard your own over the years.

Others, in arrogance or desperation, find themselves unable to. And while your grandsire’s need for peace -perhaps not peace, but merely the absence of conflict, not an extinguished forest fire, but a land devoid of air, where not even embers might linger alive- was something you expected would be easy to learn was his weakness, you are surprised by how swiftly you understand pride is Aemond’s.

“I have not seen you ride her in years, I fear neither my memories nor the stories I have heard must do either of you justice now, after so long bonded,” You admit, false sweetness twining with honest admiration. “Once I am settled here, would you take me to see her, uncle? We could fly together.”

You would think a praise as plain as those extended to some Lord or another during your travels, a request as simple as this, would not so easily disarm him, but it seems to.

A twitch of his mouth, as if he stops himself from giving a quicker answer, and Aemond leans back in his seat. A retreat.

Another drum of his fingers on the table, but there’s a nervousness to the movement now, and you fight for control to keep the smug smile off your lips.

“Of course, Princess.”

You bow your head and mutter a quick kirimvose, and catch yourself slipping, offering an honest smile. A part of you, still the child that would linger long after the candles had started to die out practicing Valyrian with a book recounting the Conquest, is still filled with awe at the mere thought of Visenya’s dragon.

And the part of you that felt her blood sing when Daemon made you take flight with him on Caraxes and Vermithor and taught you all he could of how to lead a dragon during war, during a true dance, wants more than little else for a chance to prove yourself against the Queen of All Dragons and her rider.

“A most excellent suggestion, sweet girl,” The King praises. “Two of the oldest living dragons, the two branches of our House, flying as one again. It will remind the Realm we stand as one.”

Must everything be for the good of the Realm, to send a message? Must everything be for appearances’ sake? You merely wanted Aemond and his hoary dragon to be reminded you and the Bronze Fury remain faster, better.

Reminding yourself to play, and desperate to close any openings these people might find, you search for a shield.

“I have dearly missed the musicians from King’s Landing. Many fond memories of my youth involve their melodies,” You announce, entirely more chipper than you have ever been naturally. Turning to the King, you prompt, “If you please, grandsire?”

He acquiesces, and orders the music start with a slight cough at the end of his words. He reaches with a clammy, cold hand and squeezes your fingers once before letting go.

Strangely, perhaps in the most bizarre interaction you’ve had since arriving, you find the Lord Hand regard you quietly and offer you a nod when your eyes meet, as if approving.

With your future betrothed seemingly intent on ignoring you and Aemond back to his maddening little game with his knife -it is strange, that even in such distinct actions and attitudes, the brothers remind you in the same way of the lions the Lannisters of Casterly Rock presented to you when you arrived, and the incessant circles the poor beasts would pace, forsaking food and water to keep up the mad repetition their time in captivity had impressed in them-; you find yourself with no remaining choice but to bother sweet Helaena.

“Are dinners in the Keep usually…like this?”

Like a castle a stone away from crumbling to dust, like a barrel leaking oil next to an open flame. Like an open wound, dug into by uncaring, rotten fingers.

“No. The pain makes father sleep a lot, so he doesn’t join us. Grandsire is always too busy to attend,” She tells you, intent on achieving on the folded napkin the perfect angle for what you know is a dragon. “And usually no one talks to me.”

“Oh.”

She taps the dragon’s snout once, twice, to further correct its position. Looks at it for a few beats of silence, studying it.

“I hope that changes with you here again. I haven’t had a sister before.”

Though her wording is strange, it is no different from the way the girl you remember from your childhood used to speak. You allow yourself a smile, honest for once, “Neither have I.”

“You have Baela and Rhaena,” She argues without thinking, before her eyes widen and rise to meet yours. “I’m sorry.”

“No use in lying to you, is there?”

She breathes a warm little laugh, but ducks her head, even as she admits, “Everyone still tries.”

“I can assure you it is not meant as a personal offense, Helaena,” You promise her, “To many it becomes an instinct. It is no longer a choice they can make.”

Her brow twitches, as if something bothers her, and she does a miniscule shake of her head as if to rid it of something. Instead of sharing thoughts you are certain are itching to be voiced, Helaena presents the napkin dragon to you.

You take it with careful hands, and bow your head with murmured, yet heartfelt, thanks.

___

Dismissed from what you are certain has been the longest dinner of your entire existence, you walk with Helaena to your room, your handmaidens having gone ahead of you to ready each of your rooms.

In your hand the cloth dragon is carefully cradled, and you muse aloud about where it is you will place it.

“Rhaenyra taught me to make these. I used to make them daily for father, for him to put next to his marble ones,” Helaena reminisces, “He discarded every one of them. Aemond found them one day, tried to hide them so I wouldn’t know.”

“I take it he didn’t succeed.”

“My brothers are terrible at hiding things, both of them.”

“I know, and so are mine. Remember when Aegon and Jace agreed to steal Sunfyre and Vermax from the Pits to have them race? Days before they were giddy, couldn’t for the lives of them hide they were up to something.”

“You cursed at them in Valyrian and in Common when you found out what they were planning.”

And yet you still went with them, as did Helaena. Even Aemond, grumbling the whole way, joined you and watched the dragons fly overhead with you all.

Foolishly, you find that you remember that day fondly, even though Jace refused to talk to you for a week after finding out you had bet on Sunfyre winning.

Instead of admitting that memories of a shared youth linger fresher in your mind, closer to your heart, that you would like, you argue,

“It was an objectively stupid idea. If our mothers had found out they would have had their hides. And ours.”

“They found out.”

“They did?” Your smile falters. Even to this day Jace boasts about the time he stole his own dragon from the Pits. “My mother never said anything.”

“Mine did. She-…” She stops, startles at a thud from within your room as the servants move about. She shakes her head again, though you gather it is memories and not something relating to her dreams that she aims to clear from her head now. “They found out.”

“I’ll be sure to tell that to my brother, he still believes himself some masterful thief for pulling it off.” You tell her, attempting to bring levity back into the conversation. It feels like yet another mask, for no one’s benefit, and you aren’t sure what to make of both the realization that you wear it even now, and the fact that you refuse to drop it.

You both come to a stop in the door to your apartments -what used to be your mother’s apartments, instead of the rooms you occupied when you were last here-, and Helaena speaks again,

“You couldn’t know, but I…I…” Her hands spasm, open and close, one, two times. Like dying spiders. “You hurt me, by leaving.”

“I never meant to.”

“I know. You didn’t have a choice,” She concedes, but the stiffness remains. Helaena lifts her head a little higher, hands joined together before her. “It doesn’t change that it hurt, however.”

“I…”

“Goodnight.”

She bows her head as a goodbye and doesn’t wait for an answer before she takes her leave.

Thank you for reading! Some chapters of this series will skip in time a bit, so if there's anything that wasn't clear or that you'd like to know about the time in between, or any skipped scenes, or stuff from the past, feel free to ask!

Taglist: @21-princess

Next Chapter >>

#aegon targaryen x targaryen!reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon ii x reader #fics by me

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mydearlybeloathed · 8 months

Text

𝐈 𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔 ³

𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞, 𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐮𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞...

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a ghost from your past makes a surprise appearance, dragging forth all the regrets and wishes you'd spent years trying to drown. and yet, some strange string of Fate keeps you and the future king of the pirates intertwined, for better or for worse.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: opla!luffy x gn!reader

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.6k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: use of Y/N, gn reader, ANGST, alcohol, an existential crisis probably

𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬: the 1 (long pond), i want to live, son of nyx

series masterlist

If someone asked you how many years you’d been a marine, your answer would be uhm, well, less than ten, because the actual number was lost to you. But you knew it’d been less than ten. Being with the marines for more than a decade was a thought that shot nausea straight to your gut.

However long it’d been, things had reached a comfortable norm. You rarely saw Koby those days. Back when you were stationed on the same ship, you and he had grown close, finding something familiar in the soul of the other. Now Koby was a captain, you were just under him in rank as a commander, and the two of you were under different commands.

You rarely noticed when a day passed anymore. It was all a numbing cycle of chores, reports, and arrests—repeat. Your cohorts had taken to a game they called Make-Y/N-Crack, in which they did everything in their power to draw any sort of reaction from you.

No one had won so far, your deadpan too seeped into your whole being that you’d near forgotten how to smile.

Your main indicator of a passage of time was the wear and tear of Luffy’s wanted poster, one of his very first, and certainly not his last. It was faded in some places and torn in a corner, but you held it close to you wherever you went, including the island your ship was stopped at for supplies.

Given that the ship would be there for a few days, you and your fellows had one night to yourselves to roam the town and do as you pleased.

“Commander—”

“We’re off duty, Nia. Call me my name,” you said evenly, cutting off the soldier girl. Nia burned bright red, mouth snapping shut. You sighed. “What do you need?”

“Well, I was just wondering why you’re going that way?” she asked, jutting her chin at the side street you’d been headed toward when she called you back. Behind Nia, a rowdy crowd of fellow marines waited for their friend to join, each casting you a contemplative kind of glower. “We’re all headed to the bar, if you wanted to come?”

They all hated you, for reasons you didn't bother to fathom. All except Nia, who was possibly too gentle to be a commissioned marine, in your opinion. “I’m fine. I know where I’m going.”

She nodded once and turned tail, jogging after her friends who nudged her shoulder with a tease you didn’t catch. You stood for a moment and watched them go; you watched their easy smiles and close camaraderie, and you missed that.

Koby flourished in this line of work, setting out everyday to make this world better. You felt you should be doing the same—that you were doing the same—but it all felt so useless. So mundane. Worthless.

You had yet to cross paths with the pirate Monkey D. Luffy. It hadn't yet been a decade, but what if ten years did pass? What then? Would you continue as you are, mindlessly walking a path you’d carved for yourself?

“I need a drink,” you muttered, turning back down the dimly lit street.

You were somewhat familiar with the town, having been here once before around a year ago. Koby had been with you then, that being one of your last weeks together before he was promoted and moved to a different ship.

It was your intention to find the cozy tavern once again to maybe mull over some of your less-bitter memories. That thought had you running a hand over your face. What’s become of me?

Sometimes you forgot why you’d joined the marines, and then the poster tucked into the pocket of your coat burned with the reminder. Other times, you wondered why you stayed after all this time (you hadn't found a decent answer for that yet).

You found it was easier to get drunk than to wonder where your decisions had led you.

The moment you stepped into the tavern a wave of warm air hit you, along with the odor of sweat, alcohol, and bread. Not the most pleasing combination, but you trudged inside and beelined for the bar anyway.

The bartender shot you a tight grin, stress lining her forehead. “What can I get ya?”

“Surprise me,” you muttered, setting some money down on the counter. She swiped it up and made to fetch a drink, but her eyes found your messy uniform first. She hesitated, glancing up at you, before warily continuing on her way.

You threw your head into your hands, heaving a sigh. You really should have changed before leaving the ship. Being a marine didn’t make you popular with a great many people. You liked it when town’s smiled at you even when they saw your uniform, but those occurrences were growing fewer and farther between.

If only you had Koby’s optimism. If only you had the guts to stand up. If only you’d gone with Luffy. If only, if only, if only…

He’d probably forgotten all about you, moved on with the sea in his hair and light in his eyes.

“Here you go.” The bartender placed a drink to your right. You cast it a glance and pulled it closer, peering into the dark liquid. “Strong stuff. Ya look like you need it.”

You nodded through a huffy laugh. “Thanks, miss.”

After cracking your neck you tipped back your drink, grimacing at the sting and just plain awful taste. She chuckled as she walked away. “Told you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumbled into the cup, taking another swig and slamming it back down with a cough.

A figure plopped into the seat beside you, the ruffling of their coat meeting your ears. They let free a hefty sigh, and you swore you felt their exhaustion just radiating off their skin.

“Brandy, if you please.”

You choked into your cup, this time not from the rancid burn. Stiff as a board, you stared daggers into the bar, hands tight around the cup. The bartender handed over a glass to the person beside you.

“Thank you, sweetheart.” That voice was gruff with a sly tilt to it. You knew that voice.

You didn’t want to turn, but you did anyway, wide eyes landing on the profile of a one armed, red haired pirate you thought for certain you’d never see again.

Shanks swirled around his liquor before taking a drink, slamming the cup back down a moment later. Really, you should have fled the site and gone to spend a miserable night with the other marines. But your whole body was seized up, eyes locked on Luffy’s idol.

“I—” you squeaked, cupping a hand over your mouth an instant later as Shanks cast you a side eye.

Immediately, he was curious, wondering why exactly this kid looked so familiar. He turned his head, disturbed by how you stared at him like you’d seen a ghost. scrutinizing your face, it hit him like a punch to the gut; in his mind’s eye he shrank you down a few feet, gave you a set of buck teeth, and placed you next to a little curly headed boy.

“Y/N?” He laughed. “What—You’re so big!”

Though he smiled, you couldn’t help but picture his face in a wanted poster. Your uniform felt all too hot and heavy all of a sudden. “Uh…”

“What’re you doing here, kid?” He clapped you on the shoulder and nearly knocked the breath out of you. “Where’s Luffy? I never thought I’d see one without the other.”

You hated to spoil his excitement at the prospect of seeing the boy, so you avoided the question altogether. “I’m here for work.”

He saw right through you, his smile losing some of its genuineness. “And Luffy?” You turned and tipped back the last of your drink, and Shanks finally noticed your attire, particularly the familiar emblem. “Shit—the Marines? Really?”

Annoyance crept up your mind. You held your cup in both hands, gaze hung. “Commander Y/N, at your service.”

“Commander… wow.” He shifted to completely face you, a grin working up his face. “That’s amazing.”

You had expected a shout, maybe the retrieval of his pistol. Not whatever that was. You faced him warily, catching pride flashing in his eyes. “You’re not angry…”

“Why would I be?” He waved for the bartender to bring him another drink, motioning two fingers at her. “You’re successful. Always knew you would be, Worm.”

A childish part of you fluttered at the mention of that old nickname. Bookworm. Hah. You hardly read these days, always too busy. The bartender put down two shot glasses and swept away. “But… My job is to catch pirates like you.”

He scoffed, nudging your glass toward you. “No offense, Commander Bookworm, but you’re not catching me anytime soon.”

“I wasn't going to try. Just saying.” You picked up the glass and watched him reach to clink his to yours. Letting slide a scant smirk, you accepted the cheers and shot back the liquid in sync with Shanks.

You nearly gagged again as you set the glass back down, laughing. “God, I hate liquor.”

Shanks nudged you as he called for yet another drink. “Can’t say the same.” The conversation fell short, and Shanks cast you a glance as you fiddled with the fabric of your coat. “Mind if I ask how you got here? I mean, I figured for sure you’d be with Luffy. You’ve seen his poster, right?”

“Of course,” you snapped back, your hand passing over your pocket. “I, uhm… A while back, Luffy escaped…”

His eyes held a misty sadness. “And you didn’t.”

You found yourself shaking your head, hands closing into fists. “I chose to stay behind.”

Shanks waited for you to elaborate, blinking blankly. And when you didn’t— “Why the fuck would you do that?”

“Excuse me,” you startled.

“Why the fuck,” he enunciated incredulously, “would you stay behind? He’s gotta be beside himself.”

Straightening up, you narrowed your eyes at him. “Even if he was, it’s been years, Red Hair. He’s gotten over it—”

“Have you?” The question was instantaneous, no hesitation behind the dagger-like words.

“What?”

“Gotten over it. I doubt you have.”

You gaped at him. “You know nothing about me. Don’t think you’ve got me all figured out just because you ruined my life by giving Luffy all those stupid dreams—” You choked, huffed, and attempted to make a quick escape.

Shanks’ hand found your shoulder, gentle yet firm, and you plopped back onto your seat, eyes closed tight. “Let me go.”

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. “Okay? I’ll back off.”

Without asking or saying anything at all, the bartender set another glass of that awful drink in front of you. You took a sip, shaking his hand off and taking a moment to breathe. “It was for the best, all right? I would only hold him back. Look how far he’s come. He couldn’t have done that with me lagging after him.”

“Why would you be lagging?” When you didn’t answer, only turning your face away, he nudged you with his shoulder. “Worm?”

That name made it hard to take anything seriously, but somehow, you managed, hissing out a sigh through your teeth. “It’s much easier to read about other people being brave.” Chewing your lip, “I like to read about heroes, mostly to remind myself why I’m not one.”

“You’re a marine. Surely sometimes you’re a hero.”

“Sometimes.” Throwing caution to the wind, you drank your whole glass in one swig, letting the alcohol simmer through your blood and turn your mind hazy.

“What did you mean,” he asked. “When you said I ruined your life?”

“Oh. It’s nothing.”

“Tell me.”

You tried to slide off the stool again. “Goodbye, Shanks.”

He didn’t stop you this time, only shifting to watch you slowly trudge away. Shanks scoffed. “C’mon, Worm. What’re you so afraid of?”

Lots of things. You were afraid of spiders and falling, though not of heights themselves, and you quite liked the daddy-long-legs. You were afraid of losing, of failing, of being wrong. Of seeing Luffy again and having him be completely disappointed with what he saw. An all consuming fear that you can’t change what you are, that you’re too far down this road to ever think of turning back.

You hardly realized you’d stopped walking until Shanks was at your side, moving to catch your distracted gaze. “Kid?”

You swallowed thickly. “I was always content with my fate. Luffy wasn’t, and a lot of that has to do with you. The rest was his own passion.” That incessant burn resurfaced in your throat. “So I stayed because I wasn’t about to drag him down with me. He’s too good. I…”

Dammit. You’d been doing so well. You hadn’t cried in months. Trying to glare, you spat, “Goodbye.”

You made to walk past him and actually leave the building this time, but he caught your wrist. Whirling around, your curses were cut off by a quick and dangerous offer: “Come join my crew.”

Shanks was so sincere, nearly hopeful as he stared into your eyes. You wondered if this is how your father would look at you if he knew how to be kind.

Barely breathing, you shoved every word and every notion down to the pits of your mind, retracting your arm to wrap it around yourself. A singular tear fled your eye and was wiped away in an instant. Shaking your head, you backed away from him, trying not to stumble, and bolted out of the tavern.

The worst of it was Shanks’ sad sigh you caught as you fled, like he’d expected this, like he was wondering why he bothered to ask.

Later, you found Nia and the others waltzing back up to the ship. Your face was dry and your expression a void, and Nia smiled as she raced toward you.

“Commander!” She skidded to a stop, backtracking, “Sorry. Y/N.”

“What is it?” you said a little too harshly.

She wasn’t perturbed, grinning up at you. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Your heart held this odd numbness you had come to equate with acceptance. Luffy’s poster burned like hellfire in your pocket. “I think so.”

Nia invited you to join the rest of them in the ship’s galley, promising good conversation and cheap wine smuggled on board. You told her you’d think about it, and she chased her friends up the gangway and onto the ship.

The sea licked at the wood of the docks and the wind bit at your skin. And you stood solemnly, watching that crumpled wanted poster become saturated by murky water till it sank out of view.

You regretted it instantly, a recurring theme for you, apparently.

How easy would it be to walk away from the marine vessel and find Shanks again? How simple would it be it to ditch this marine’s coat and set off on your own? Your hands started to tremble at the very notion. Not easy and not simple at all.

Casting a glance up at the starry sky, you bit back a sob, and you made a wish on the first star you laid eyes on. Please, please don’t hate me.

Stiffening, you set your jaw and cursed yourself. You had to get a hold of yourself. Being a marine was hell for you, but you’d been doing it for years. Seeing a ghost from your past and having him give you a chance shouldn’t be so crushing. Honestly, you should be cursing Shanks for giving you an offer you didn’t deserve. This was all his fault, all Luffy’s fault—

And you broke, breath seizing as a silent cry fled your lips.

You loved him—of course you still loved him. You would until you died, you think. And that was the problem. With your arms wrapped around yourself, you thought back to the day everything changed.

Luffy’s little broken boat, disappearing on the horizon, Vice Admiral Garp leering at your shoulder. Your first moments entrapped by fear. You’d been proud of that day, once upon a time. Now you weren’t so sure.

Was there any room to turn back, with years of running from your past behind you?

“Oh, Luffy. What have I done?”

A cord in your heartstrings snapped, and your feet scrambled away from the marine vessel. A gasp ripped from your chest, eyes aflame, and your fists tightened desperately around this bout of courage.

Back down the road, back to the little tavern, you burst through the double doors, certain you looked insane as your eyes sweeped the dim room. The bartender’s eyes snapped up from where she was cleaning the many glasses you and Shanks had left behind. A fistfull of beri had been left in his wake.

“Keep going left,” said the bartender. “You might catch him.”

A thank you slipped past your lips as you raced outside, raising your hands in two L’s to pinpoint the right direction, taking off down the street that faded from cobblestone to dirt under your footfalls.

Over twigs and leaves, under trees that grew thick further down the path, your heart thundered against your ribcage. The sloping road grew thin before it gave way to a secluded beach lit only by the moon. Your chest heaved as sand kicked up behind you.

“Wait!” you cried. “Shanks! Wait, please! I'll go with you! Shanks…”

A little lantern illuminated the dingy too far away to hear you as it rowed closer to the ship anchored out in the bay. A whisper of his name fell off your tongue, throat suddenly dry and stomach sick.

You hit your knees, fists grabbing at grains of sand that slipped through your fingertips. “Come back. Please…”

For the second time in your life, you watched a ship sail away carrying with it the chance of freedom, leaving you on the sand empty and helpless.

જ⁀➴

Luffy rarely dreamed when he slept. When he did dream, he never remembered it, the wild scenes fading seconds after he woke.

Which is why he startled awake, hands clawing at his hammock, straw hat falling off his face and into his lap. He clung to the sound of your laughter, of your touch grazing his cheek, of the feel of your skin under his hands—

He didn’t dream often, but when he did, he often dreamt of you.

He rubbed at his sleep crusted eyes and ached for the quickly fading memory. The finer details of the plot were soon lost on him, but he knew in this dream you were happy. Luffy liked those dreams much more than the more common ones where you cried, too far out of his reach to comfort.

“Luffy?” spoke Chopper, his voice hazy with sleep as he yawned. “Are you okay?”

“Huh?” Confused, Luffy realized he was gasping for air. “O–Oh, I’m fine, Chopper.” He glanced down from his hammock to offer the reindeer a trembling smile. “I’m good, really.”

Not buying it, Chopper huffed and stood from his own hammock, making quick work of climbing up to Luffy’s. He sat across from his captain, worry all over his furry face. “Did you have a bad dream?”

“Nah, don’t worry ‘bout it.” He reached over to ruffle the tuft of fur between Chopper’s antlers. “Sorry for waking you.”

He smiled softly. “It’s okay.” Chopper started to snuggle into the fabric of the hammock, obviously having no intention of climbing back down. “I was having a bad dream too.”

Luffy leaned back, doing his best to calm his nerves enough to go back to sleep. “Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Nami was angry at me. It wasn’t fun.”

The captain laughed, promptly shut up by a voice from the hammock underneath. “Shut up, would ya?”

Chopper squeaked, “Sorry, Zoro.”

The swordsman sighed and rustled in his hammock. “It's fine. Go to bed.”

Soon Zoro’s snores filled the mens’ quarters, and Chopper’s calm breathing soon followed. Sanji and Usopp snored in tandem as well, till only Luffy remained awake, staring at the ceiling, trying desperately to recall his dream.

You couldn’t be happy, wherever you were. How long had it been? Far too long, though he wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since he last saw you on the beach of Foosha Village.

Would he recognize you? Would you recognize him? Luffy had to hope the answer was yes, and he had to hope one day he’d have the chance to rescue you, to set you free just as you freed him.

“I’ll find you,” he threatened the silence. “You can’t hide forever.”

Miles and miles away, kneeling on the sand, you swore you heard a familiar voice in the wind, but it couldn’t have been. You were halfway near drunk. That must've been it.

Luffy turned his head to look out the window of the cabin, and you tilted your chin to stare at the stars. The stars twinkled down on the both of you, promises and threats hung on the wind and sea that separated you.

Some endings are always meant for tragedy. Some loves are meant for doom. It was how Fate worked.

But Fate favored you and Luffy—forever working to save the other, forever aching for the day that would bring you side by side once again.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @its-not-too-late-for-coffee @khaleesihavilliard

#luffy #luffy x you #monkey d luffy x reader #luffy x reader #monkey d. luffy #straw hat luffy #opla #opla luffy #opla luffy x reader #opla x reader #one piece x reader #x reader #reader insert #one piece live action #one piece live action luffy #angst #shanks x reader #shanks x platonic!reader #gender neutral reader

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gay-dorito-dust · 11 months

Note

Can you write headcannons for Smoke and Bihan with their s/o who's overworked themselves to the point where they hardly get sleep and barely eat?

Tomas Vrbada

He’s naturally going to be concerned about your well being the moment you rejected food and or sleep on multiple occasions across a period of time.

Tomas understood that your work was important that that you’ll have a fair few nights where you went without sleep or eating, but he quickly draws the line when he could start to visibly see the physical toll your overworking tendency has taken. You could barely stand on your own two fucking feet without constantly shifting your stance, as your eyes struggled to stay open and the dark begs beneath them got worse.

To Tomas no job was worth someone’s health and well-being and this job certainly wasn’t worth yours in the slightest. Your work be damned but he wasn’t about to watch you slowly deteriorate overtime, whilst he’s stuck stood at the sidelines, knowing deep down that he could stop this before it becomes too late to make change.

‘Why?’ You asked when Tomas asked you to take some time off from work, biting back a yawn, thinking you were slick. ‘I’m in the middle of something important for work and I have to cover for two long shifts later this week, seeing as my coworker had dropped them on a extremely short notice…again.’ You muttered the last bit under your breath but Tomas heard it as though you were speaking at a normal volume.

‘That!’ He pretty much exclaimed before composing himself and sat beside you at your desk, taking one of your hands in his whilst his thumb rubbed your skin soothingly. ‘Look I get that you love this job and want to build a career for yourself, which I’m all for but,’ he looks into your eyes where you saw just how worried he was, ‘I don’t want to stand by and watch you destroy yourself for a job that doesn’t commemorate all you’ve done for them.’

Tomas rested his forehead against yours, his heart melting when he saw how easily you learn into his warmth. ‘So please, take a break, sleep and for my sake please eat because I can’t bear to watch you destroy yourself for others who don’t value you like I do.’ He whispered against your lips. ‘I see the effort you put in but there has to come a time where you must walk away from situations that don’t benefit you.’ You sat on his words and allowed yourself to feel just how exhausted, how heavy with fatigue your body was that you could barely lift a finger.

Tomas was right, like he always was, maybe a break wouldn’t be so bad if it meant you could cuddle into him and indulge in his cooking as much as your stomach could handle.

Yeah, that sounds way better than working.

‘Okay.’ You said softly. ‘I’ll call in tomorrow.’

‘No need, I already told them that you’d be taking a break and to not be contacted until you feel like you’re ready to go back in.’ Tomas admitted and you couldn’t help but chuckle. ‘Unbelievable.’ You teased, only to yawn soon after before nestling yourself again him. ‘But I’m not complaining if it means I get to annoy you for the next few days.’

Tomas was the one the chuckle this time and kisses the top of your head. ‘Jokes on you, I love having you annoy me. Now get to sleep, baby. You’re more than deserving of it.’

Bi-Han

I see him as the kind of person to do the same but I could be wrong. He just strikes me as the type to not properly take care of himself, ya know? That’s just my opinion.

Bi-Han runs himself into the ground to become stronger for himself and for the future survival of the Lin Quei but the moment you begin to run yourself into the ground for other people at your place of work? He becomes the biggest hypocrite known to man.

So he wouldn’t think much of it at first but the more it happened, the more it became apparent to Bi-Han that something was wrong, very wrong and he needed to step in.

He finds your desire to make a career for yourself admirable but not like this, you don’t get respect from the people who’ll never understand the importance of a hard days work. In Bi-Han’s, everyone else should strive to earn your respect for the shit you put yourself through. Seeing as you weren’t given no thanks for your efforts, but instead countless more expectations to pick up your coworkers slack.

So I wouldn’t put it past Bi-Han to demand that you take a break, Grandmaster’s orders and all that.

‘Bi-Han I can’t just take a break! I’ve got important work to do-‘

‘Work that isn’t yours to complete.’ Bi-Han interrupted but he was right, you had finished your work in advance and now multiple people at work suddenly claimed that they had other obligations to do theirs, thus pulling them onto you instead with nothing other then fake smiles and even faker gratitude.

Curse your people pleasing tendencies!

You sighed, rubbing at your aching eyes that have only seemed to have gotten worse over the course of the past couple of days. ‘Then what do you suggest I do? Not finish them and let them bitch at me for their lack of responsibilities?’ You asked rhetorically, knowing that with Bi-Han, you’ll never win this argument as he always has something to back up his claims.

And besides you were too tired to argue against something that you both knew was true, it wasn’t your work to finish and so by that logic, no blame would befall you entirely. At least you hoped not.

‘It is due to their lack of responsibility that has caused you this fatigue, beloved. They’re more then deserving of the punishment.’ Bi-Han said. ‘You shouldn’t hold yourself responsible for other people’s decisions nor destroy yourself into looking reliable to your peers. You’re better than them, more resilient, dependable, hard working, determined but most of all; you take responsibility for any and all of your decisions applicably.’ Bi-Han sat back at his chair and gestured to the food before the both of you that had yet to be touched. ‘But now it’s time you rest and eat as much as you possibly can.’

#mk x reader #mk x you #mk imagine #mk imagines #mortal kombat 1 x reader #mortal kombat x you #mortal kombat x reader #mortal kombat imagine #mortal kombat imagines #tomas vrbada imagine #tomas vrbada x reader #tomas x reader #tomas vrbada x you #smoke x reader #bi han imagines #bi han x you #bi han imagine #bi han x reader #sub zero x reader

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even-disco-baby · 2 years

Text

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hello again, gendarme.” He smiles at you— not from his usual post, but from one of the cafeteria tables. A small sketchbook is laid out in front of him, along with some odd gray sticks.

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Compressed graphite. Not quite as bold or blendable as charcoal, but certainly less messy.

EMPATHY — Garte will appreciate it.

“I’d like to talk about the case again.”

“You moved! I didn’t know you could do that.”

“What are you drawing?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “That’s the question, isn’t it?” His smile turns a little rueful. “I found one of my old sketchbooks and thought I’d like to fill the last few empty pages, but I’m finding myself a little… uninspired.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION — The accursed artist’s block. Staring down an empty page only for it to stare back, mocking you.

EMPATHY — He is unsure of himself. He said this was an old sketchbook. Maybe he’s afraid of drawing something new beside his old work and seeing that nothing has changed.

“Ah, yes. Artist’s block. I know it well. In fact, I don’t know when the last time that I actually *made* any art was.”

“You could draw the cafeteria.”

“You could draw one of the other diners.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “A life drawing exercise, huh? And who would you pick as a subject, gendarme?”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“Maybe Garte? The skua could be a fun challenge.”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.”

He has nothing more to say on the matter.

“Aw, why not? You’d make a great model!”

Let it go.

KIM KITSURAGI — “I do not get paid to model for portraits. I get paid to solve murders. Such as the one we came here to investigate. Several days ago. Which has not been solved yet, for some mysterious reason.”

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — In case you couldn’t tell, that was sarcasm.

“Come on, Kim. You’re the perfect subject! A true man of the people. And there’s this sort of radiance about you… I can see the portrait already, just looking at you. Really clearly, actually.”

Maybe don’t say that. He’s just not gonna get it.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs. “Sorry, gendarme. It’s not right to use someone’s image without permission, you know? Maybe some other time.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “No.” And then, a little awkwardly, “But thank you.”

“I don’t know. You’re the artist.”

“How about Garte? Though, you’d have to draw the skua, too…”

“You should draw the guy with the wig and sunglasses over there. He looks pretty funny.”

“Lena! She’d probably love to model for you. It would take her mind off things.”

“Kim, how about you pose for him?”

[Suggestion - Medium 10] “Why not me?”

CHECK SUCCESS

YOU — “Why not me?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He considers you with some amusement, but still, he does consider. “You’re not too busy?”

“On second thought, you’re right, I have some work to do right now. Another time, maybe?”

“Nope. Not at all.”

KIM KITSURAGI — The lieutenant sighs audibly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — What did I *just* say?

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He chuckles to himself, apparently quite tickled by the little comedy act you two are making of yourselves. “Beautiful. Why not? Have a seat. I’ll try not to keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Much appreciated,” he says drily.

YOU — [Take a seat.]

SAVOIR FAIRE — Time to strike a pose. Let’s go with something cool. Something that really captures what you’re all about.

ENDURANCE — But make sure it’s something that you’ll be able to hold comfortably.

Wink and shoot him your signature finger guns.

Look at him with big sad eyes like a shamed puppy.

Look thoughtfully into the middle distance, as if contemplating your own future masterpiece.

Stare straight at him with eyes that have seen how this world will end.

Hold your head up high. With *honor.*

Just sit and act natural. No need to put on airs.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He looks you up and down, thumbing his bottom lip. His eyes look brighter and more alert than you have ever seen them. And then, he picks up his graphite and begins to work.

His eyes dart between you and the page, his hand sweeping across the page in bold, practiced strokes. All traces of his earlier hesitation have vanished.

VOLITION — Sometimes, a little push is all we need.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — Every now and then, he pauses to look up at you, and it’s almost unnerving to be the subject of whatever calculations are going on behind his eyes. He holds out his graphite, squinting just slightly.

VISUAL CALCULUS — This is called sighting. He’s roughly measuring the relative proportions of your figure and checking them against his sketch.

KIM KITSURAGI — Even the lieutenant is watching now, interested in spite of himself.

“Are portraits your specialty?”

“Have you been drawing anything for school lately?”

Better not distract him.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hmm…” He ponders this for a moment, not looking up from his work. “Not exactly. I’m more interested in the graphic arts than this sort of thing. But it’s best to build a strong foundation before branching out, you know?”

YOU — “Graphic arts? Like what?”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Printmaking.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he speaks, seemingly without him even noticing. “Monotype, especially.”

ENCYCLOPEDIA — Monotype is a printmaking technique that is singular from other techniques, in that it produces only *one* unique print, rather than an edition of multiple prints.

YOU — What, really? What’s the point of printing it, then?

ENCYCLOPEDIA — I don’t know. I didn’t invent it.

“Why monotype? Wouldn’t a different technique be more… practical?”

“I see.” [Drop the subject.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — He shrugs slightly, smudging a bit of graphite with a bare finger. “Depends on how you define practical, I suppose. If I had my own studio, and I was selling my prints, then maybe. But we make do with what we have, gendarme.”

EMPATHY — And what he has is very little.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Besides, I think monotype has its charms.”

The young man does not elaborate, instead focusing on the work at hand. He picks up an eraser that has been shaved down to a point for fine detail work, and begins on what are likely the finishing touches.

EMPATHY — He has already talked at uncharacteristic length about this. It’s making him a little uncomfortable.

SAVOIR FAIRE — He doesn’t like to share too much about himself because it makes him feel *uncool.* He prefers to maintain an air of mystery.

RHETORIC — It’s safer, too, that way. He’s learned that passion exists to be exploited. False promises and admiration are the offerings of Sunday friends.

“If you say so.” [Back off.]

“What kind of charms?” [Press on.]

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His eyes flit back to you, sizing you up now in a different way. And then he looks back down at the page with a quiet bre ath.

“Well, it doesn’t take as much time or labor as other methods. Or expensive tools, or dangerous chemicals. Just paper, a plate, ink, and something to apply it with. And I can use the same plate over and over again, even use it to create different layers for the same print.”

RHETORIC — In other words, it’s cheap and can be done from home. An attractive option.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “And with monotype, it’s not so hard to go back and change your mind. You can start over as many times as you’d like, right up until the moment you lay the page on the plate.”

INLAND EMPIRE — That really does sound attractive. To be able to wipe the slate clean, over and over again…

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There aren’t as many limits on what kind of textures you can create, too. Brushstrokes and fingerprints… They can really come out beautiful.”

His brow creases a little, and he picks his graphite back up to rework a particular area.

DRAMA — He’s still holding out on you, sire. Too self-conscious to admit what he really likes about the medium.

YOU — Which is what?

EMPATHY — Fragility.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — An image which is only complete after being mirrored and translated, never to be recreated except as a ghostly afterimage. An exercise in surrendering to chance. What will be, will be. And then the moment will pass, and it will be time to start the next piece.

VOLITION — This man knows disappointment intimately. It is his closest companion. He has learned to make peace with it. He passes the time with his Sunday friends, lays his paper on the plate and hopes, despite himself, for the best.

YOU — Is that… a good thing?

VOLITION — …It’s hard to say. But we make do with what we have.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “There.” The young man sits up straight, and it’s only now that you realize just how close he brought himself to his work.

DRAMA — His face may not betray him, but the body does not lie. He was having *fun,* my liege.

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “All done.” He tears the page from his book and holds it out to you with a small smile.

ITEM GAINED: Portrait of a Disco Holdover

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — “Hope I didn’t keep you too long.”

KIM KITSURAGI — “Don’t worry about it,” Kim says, rather resignedly.

ESPIRIT DE CORPS — If you’d declined, the lieutenant thinks, my partner would have just found some other way to get sidetracked.

KIM KITSURAGI — Still, he cannot stop himself from glancing at the portrait over your shoulder.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — It’s you! Unfortunately. Not even the most masterful hand could make the Expression less unsettling to look at. Your posture is poor, your face is swollen and blotchy, your hair is thinning, your clothes are shabby and out of place… I could go on.

Oh god, you could?

Please don’t.

PORTRAIT OF A DISCO HOLDOVER — But, you know… it’s nice. The smoker’s technique is bold and rather lovely, broad strokes of graphite intersecting in just the right places to create surprising depths. Somehow, even though it’s you… it’s not hideous.

EMPATHY — Because you’re seeing yourself through another person’s eyes.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — There is an odd tenderness to the portrait. Something amusing in your grimace, a touch of sympathy in your hunched shoulders. With the eraser, he has lifted small spots of pigment from your face, as if it were illuminated by flecks of light from the karaoke disco ball.

There are no disco lights tonight, but still, he sees them when he looks at you. Your moment has passed, but it left quite the impression. A ghost print, superimposed over you.

“Not bad, but the bicep girth is off. Right, Kim?”

“Oh god, is that really what I look like?”

“Hmm. It’s okay, but you should consider a backup career plan.”

“Whoa, you’re amazing! Can you draw me again, but this time in the costume from the cover of Man from Hjelmdall and the Devil Woman? And like, with a really cool warhammer? And Queen Lydiaana standing in the background, all like, ‘boohoo, where will I ever find another man like Ha— I mean, the Man from Hjelmdall?’”

“Beautiful.”

SMOKER ON THE BALCONY — His smile climbs up into the corners of his eyes, warming his entire countenance.

CONCEPTUALIZATION — If you were to capture a portrait of him in this moment, it would be beautiful, too.

#disco elysium #harry du bois #the smoker on the balcony #kim kitsuragi #this one is. so self indulgent. i like the smoker i like to think abt him #and assign him my art student interests #anyway. oh the joy of making art and showing ppl what they rlly look like in your eyes #and oh the beauty of monotypes and printmaking and hoping for the best #GODDAMMIT I FUCKED UP THE FORMATTING AGAIN AND DIDNT CATCH IT UNTIL LIKE 12 HOURS LATER.#if you saw that. no you didn’t.

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wkemeup · 2 years

Text

The Casket

summary: When a mission goes wrong, you’re helpless but to watch as Bucky is forced into the object of his nightmares – Hydra’s cryochamber.

pairing: bucky x reader

word count: 12.5k

warnings: canon level violence, nightmares, body warming tropes, pissed off reader won’t stop until she saves her man,

a/n: Here it is. The last fic in my archive. I adore you all so much. Thank you for everything 💕 In case you missed it, here’s the post on the future of this blog.

You woke to darkness. The bedroom was cast only in the dim light of stars and the pale glow of the alarm clock. It had yet to reach the witching hour. Daring a glance over the safety of warm covers, you spotted the ends of curtains dancing at the window as an icy draft escaped through the thin fabric.

It was warm the evening before, but New York weather was unpredictable in the changing seasons. The crickets chirping down by the lake had been a comfort as the sun had set. It was a glimpse of Spring on the horizon. Hours later, your breath was visible in each exhale.

Wincing as another breeze crept through the open window, you sleepily brushed your eyes. Snow blanketed the grounds. Layers of white piled onto tree branches and coated the hills behind the compound. A dusting of ice lay upon the ledge within your bedroom.

A weight shifted on the bed beside you. Bucky slept with his arms tucked tight under the pillow, a lock of hair hung over his eyes. He groaned as a shiver trembled along his spine. Gently, you traced a line with your fingertips over his brow, guiding the hair away from his eyes. His nose twitched in his sleep. He looked so young as he slept. Peaceful. Even as he shivered against the breeze.

You leaned over and pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades, lips grazing over his t-shirt. He seemed to relax against the touch, if only for a moment, before the cold air brushed his skin again. You cursed the frigid Northeastern weather and quickly pulled yourself from under the comfort of the sheets.

Dressed only in one of Bucky’s discarded t-shirts, the icy air was unbearable as you crossed the room. Bucky usually ran as warm as a furnace so you had little use for much fabric sleeping beside him; often, you wore less and still took easy comfort in the heat of his body.

A final breeze crept through the cracked window before you could close it, brushing against your exposed thighs. Your whole body shook with shivers and you rubbed your chilled hands down your arms in a fruitless attempt to draw warmth. Closing the window hadn’t provided the instantaneous relief you’d hoped for, but you knew Bucky would warm up soon enough. The serum all but ensured it. And you certainly didn’t need an excuse to climb into his bed and curl up against his sleeping frame.

You took only one step back toward the bed when you heard Bucky groan again – though this time it was something painful, something aching. You paused, startled by the sound. For the first time since you woke, you noticed the inflection of a whimper muffled by the pillow.

Cautiously, you inched closer to him, heart sinking as you caught sight of the deep lines on his brow and the sharp cut of his teeth into his bottom lip. You saw then how violently his right arm was shaking, his body trembling with every hollow breath.

“Bucky?” you called quietly.

You’d seen his nightmares before. The faded imprint of a scar along the left of your collarbone was proof enough of what Bucky endured in his sleep – waking to a state where he was unable to separate dream from reality, past from present, captor from lover. He hadn’t known it was you – that the shadowy figure in his room was the woman he loved and not the Hydra handler he’d known in his dreams. You often caught him tracing the scarred line upon your skin when he thought you were long asleep, carrying the guilt of what happened even years later.

But Bucky hadn’t woken from a nightmare like that in nearly a year. Stability, family, and therapy had done him good. He’d severed his connection to the Winter Soldier and the fear that his mind would slip back into that bleak, unforgiving darkness.

This... This was different.

There was no cold detachment. No grip of anger or vengeance.

What laid upon his features instead... was fear.

“Sweetheart?” You sank to your knees at the edge of the bed, bristling against the cold hardwood floors.

Bucky’s features were distorted – his brow pinching at the center, his jaw wired shut and still, his breathing was harsh in every clouded exhale. He pressed his face into the edge of the pillow to suffocate the whimper slipping through.

“Not again,” he mumbled, barely audible against the silk pillowcase. “Please... I don’t... I don’t want to... Not again...”

You drew in a shallow breath, heart sinking beyond the floorboards to the depth of the foundation below. There was a reason Bucky couldn’t stand the winter; why he insisted on keeping your room set to sweltering conditions. Every shiver on his spine – every drop of snow – brought him back to the vessel that had stolen years of his life. The tomb that had sustained him in crystalized ice like a weapon in storage until Hydra deemed him useful again.

“You’re okay. I'm here with you, baby. You're safe,” you whispered as you lifted the blanket he held clutched within his grip and slipped yourself under the covers beside him.

There was little room for comfort between Bucky and the edge of the mattress, leaving your back exposed to the chilled air. You cursed your frozen fingers as you curled yourself around him – sliding a leg between his own, wrapping your arm around his waist, tucking your nose to the crook of his neck. Clinging to him in an effort to give him as much warmth as you could offer. All of it, if your body would allow it. You’d let yourself freeze if it would grant him an ounce of relief.

It took several minutes before you could no longer see your breaths flutter against Bucky’s collar, before his body stopped shaking and the ice warmed from his skin. You did not dare to slack your grip on him in fear you might find the red imprint of your hands along his spine, tucked under the thin layer of his shirt. Even as he stilled, quiet whispers slipped through the haze of his dream – the paralyzing fear he held of the chamber that had housed him for decades.

You held onto him tighter – clung to him as if he might slip through your grasp and plummet to the icy embrace of the ravine. You held him until sweat beaded on his forehead and the spine of his shirt was damp with it. Until his heartrate began to fall to an even pace and his chest no longer rose in short, shallow gasps. Until, what felt like hours later, when his lips grazed your temple and the soft murmur of an apology shattered your heart.

You pulled back only enough to see the shame burning dark into the blue of his eyes. It seemed to suffocate the light there, burrowing claws into his spine until it dragged him a step back into the shadows. You shook your head against his collar, tucking in tighter to his frame, unwilling to deny him even a lost second of warmth.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” you assured him. "I'm just holding you. That’s all. I love holding you, in fact.”

Bucky’s chest shook for a fraction of a moment with quiet laughter, though you knew very little of it would be present in his eyes. It was a distraction – a levity he needed to allow himself to move forward, to not let his feet get stuck in the mud of his past.

“I know you do,” he sighed, squeezing you a little tighter.

It was where you felt most at home – when you struggled to draw in a full breath because of how close he held you. To be completely encompassed by the warmth of his body and the security of his strength. The soft give of his right arm curled around the dip in your waist, the left draped over your shoulders. No hesitation in his embrace. No reluctance for the history of an arm that had burden him for decades. No second guesses of the love you held for him and the parts of his body he despised.

Several breaths of silence passed before he spoke again.

“You’d think I would have liked being in cryo.”

You almost flinched in his arms and you desperately hoped he did not notice the sharp catch of your breath at his words. If he did, he didn’t say anything. Gently, you slid your hand – now warmed in Bucky’s embrace – under the seam of his t-shirt and began to trace gingered lines along the curve of his spine. A gentle encouragement to continue.

Bucky swallowed as though the words tasted of bile. “They couldn’t touch me when I was in there. Couldn’t starve me or punish me. Couldn't give me orders. Couldn't put me in that... that fucking chair. I was just... nothing. Everything stopped. You’d think... You’d think it would be a relief.”

You pressed your lips to his collarbone, inching in closer though you were already pressed flush against his body. Anything to make him feel safer. To remind him that he was lying in this bed with you in his arms and not halfway across the world in a metal box lined in ice.

“It was worse,” Bucky admitted, his voice shattered as if gravel churned in his lungs. “I never knew if it would be the last time. If they’d just... forget about me or... decide I was used up and... and leave me there. At least when I was him, I could breathe. I... I had some sense of humanity. The cell they kept me in was a cage but cryo... cryo was a fucking casket. Storing me in a box like I was... like I was nothing more than a...”

He could have finished that sentence in ten different ways, each enough to break your heart worse than the last – a weapon, a monster, an object, a tool. He could have, but instead, you felt the warmth of a tense breath brush against your crown as he willed his body back to his control. His hands stopped shaking with panic, his chest taking in as much air as it would allow. Slowly, he relaxed into your arms again.

“They won’t do that to you again,” you whispered though your voice was laced in the rage you felt for the men who had induced such fear into the man you loved. “I won’t let them.”

You felt the soft curve of Bucky’s lips against your forehead. A ghost of a smile. “I know, sweetheart.”

The sliver of doubt in his voice brought tears to your eyes.

“You are safe and you are real and you are my world, okay?” you told him, hands sliding up to the sides of his face, begging him to look at you. You dared him to try and carry his doubts while you held him in your arms, while you told him you loved him so desperately. “You are everything. You’re not some weapon to be put away. You are a person. My person. I would die before I let them do that to you again. I would kill them all.”

The flicker of surprise was subtle, barely a noticeable shift in the blue of his eyes, but you saw it. For as much as you told Bucky of your love for him, he could not let go of the seed of doubt instilled in him from his time at Hydra – the doubt that convinced him he was not enough, that he was broken and shattered and unworthy of your love. But you’d remind him a dozen times if he needed it. A thousand. You’d tell him every day if only to subside the doubt for another day.

Bucky pulled you close to his chest. His lips grazed over your forehead as he whispered, “I love you,” to your hairline. His breath was warm over your skin, his embrace tightening around your waist. You knew those words did not come easily to him, that he often showed you how he felt for you more often than he was able to speak it, and you held him a little tighter in return.

Bucky sighed something that sounded of disappointment before a knock came at the door. It creaked open slowly, revealing Steve’s reluctant expression in the frame. You realized then that Bucky must have heard Steve’s footsteps approaching and tensed for the interruption, though Steve looked less than thrilled to be awake this hour as well judging by the pillow crease marks on his cheeks and the chaotic fluff of his dark blonde hair.

“Sorry guys,” Steve said, a frown tugging at his mouth. “Fury’s calling us in.”

***

The first mention of Hydra jolted whatever lingering tiredness you felt.

Bucky hardly reacted as Fury detailed the mission – a stealth op to dismantle a crucial Hydra weapons facility. It wouldn’t take more than a virus to their computer system to reduce their weapons to useless metal, but you’d need to be on-site to make it happen. It was an active base, but most of their agents were out on various assignments – opening a window for SHIELD to make a move on a vulnerable Hydra stronghold.

It wasn’t the first time Bucky had been on a mission where Hydra was concerned and it certainly wouldn’t be his last, but you grieved for any pain he felt walking back amongst those halls, amongst the sort of men who enslaved him and made him to feel as if he was the monster.

Bucky would keep close to you while inside the Hydra facility, assigned as backup while you input the codes meant to unravel Hydra’s weapons supply. Steve and Natasha had their own assignment, not that the director felt the need to brief you on the details. Two birds, one stone, Fury had said. While you broke down their coding, Natasha would be downloading intel classified above your paygrade on the opposite end of the building. It didn’t make for easy backup, but there was a limited time frame to get this done undetected. And Fury trusted the four of you to get it done. And you would.

The turbulence was rough on the descent, but Bucky’s hands clenched the straps of his seat whether the jetstream was smooth or not. You glanced over at him, studying the tension in his body and the hard concentration of his gaze through the pilot’s window where Steve and Nat were talking quietly to one another.

Gently, you set a hand against his knee. Though the touch startled him, he seemed to snap out of his gaze and his shoulders slowly began to relax. A soft smile pressed on his lips, a heaviness in his eyes as silent appreciation nestled over his features. He released his hold on the straps, the movement seeming to ache in his right hand, and he opened his palm to you. You took it graciously and brought your clasped hands to your lips, kissing his knuckles.

“It’ll be fine, Buck,” you told him. “It always is.”

Bucky nodded, forcing out a smile despite the lingering hesitancy. “Of course. I get to watch my girl bring Hydra to their knees. I think I can call that a good day.”

You grinned, grateful to see his eyes brighten even as Steve landed the jet in a discreet break in the woods. His heart rate slowed the longer you held his hand, the tension in his body melting the longer he looked at you.

“Ready?” Steve called from the cockpit. Natasha had already strapped five weapons to her suit by the time Steve pulled himself out from the pilot’s seat. She sent him a teasing smirk as she unlatched the loading dock.

Bucky squared his shoulders. It would always be a challenge for him to enter a Hydra base, even as a fully certified Avenger. Whether he was housed in these halls as the Winter Soldier or not, distorted memories worked their way to the surface and often followed him home after a mission like this. Pride was not enough to describe the feeling that bloomed in your chest as Bucky swallowed back his demons and took the first step forward off the jet, leaving the fear behind him.

“You have eighteen minutes,” Nat reminded you of the plan. “Get in and get out.”

You nodded, exchanging a quick glance with Bucky. He offered you a strained smile in return.

“Eighteen minutes,” you confirmed. “We’ve got this.”

***

You felt it in your bones from the moment you stepped foot in the empty hallway. The reportedly active Hydra base was eerily abandoned. It was as if they were waiting for you.

It worsened as you made your way to the computer mainframe without interruption. No silent alarms to trip, no guards rounding the halls on duty waiting for a sliver of action. Bucky sensed it too and though he did not say a word, he kept pace a single step ahead of you, careful to check the adjoining rooms along the hall before he let you step out into the vulnerable openings.

“It shouldn’t be this easy,” you stressed as you typed away at the keyboard, inputting the codes needed to dismantle their hardware. You passed every firewall without issue. It hadn’t even been this easy during your training at the academy.

“I know,” Bucky agreed, his voice tense. He looked to the hallway; his hand still tight around his rifle. His finger had not moved from the trigger since you entered the building. “Forget the assignment. We need to get out of here. Now.”

You passed another firewall. Only two more to go.

“I’ve almost got it, Buck,” you told him. “Give me two minutes and we’re out.”

Bucky swallowed; his gaze fixed on the hall. Reluctancy furrowed his brow, but he nodded anyway. “Two minutes. And then I’m dragging you out of here, understood?”

You smirked, though you did not look up from the screen. “Yes, sir.”

It got a tense laugh out of him at least. Restrained and muffled, but still there. It was a strange thing to hear his laughter in a place like this – to know these halls had once witnessed such violence only to see his joy years later. It was a vengeance of sorts. To still hold light amongst such darkness.

As you continued to fire off code after code to shatter the computer’s defenses, Bucky hovered behind you, his pacing insistent as he trailed a path from one end of the room to the other. He couldn’t let himself stand still. Could not let his body relax for even a second. Not here.

“Got it!” You hit the final key stroke but suddenly, the screen went black. The buzzing hum of the overworked ventilation on the side of the monitor dulled to an unsettling silence.

You froze, hands still hovering over the keyboards. “That can’t be good.”

A series of clicking sounds began to rattle overhead. Your eyes darted to the ceiling as you followed the sound as if waiting for some sort of creature to drop from the airducts, as if expecting something living to be crawling its way through the ceiling tiles.

“Bucky...” you warned, backing up from the computer. He was only a few paces from the door when you heard the distinct click of locks latching into place. You spun toward him, heart pounding as he shoved his left shoulder into the door though it barely gave way under his strength. He slammed into it again, his hair falling quickly out of place, matching the growing panic on his features. The metal door fractured under the strength of vibranium but it wasn’t enough.

A bitterness burned in your nose as you drew in a shallow breath. Wincing at the sensation, your eyes trailed up to the ceiling to find a cloud of green mist billowing into the room. It coated over the entire ceiling, sinking lower and lower with every passing second. By the time you looked back to Bucky to warn him, he’d already noticed the gas and lunged toward you. His hand clamped over your nose and mouth; his breathing sporadic. You watched in horror as the gas drew into his lungs with each desperate inhale.

“Don’t breathe it in!” he shouted; his eyes already hazy, his balance swaying. “Don’t breathe it... in... Don’t...”

His hand slipped from your face as if he no longer had the strength to carry the weight of his own arm. The horror of it flashed through the sedated weight in his eyes. Slowly, his gaze lifted to yours – apology and remorse burrowed deep into the soft shades of blue. He stumbled then against the desk, trying to catch himself as his balance gave way. You dove for him, but he was too heavy for you to carry, and he crashed against the unforgiving tile with an awful thud.

“Bucky!” You slid to your knees beside him; hands desperately brushing against his cheeks, drawing the hair from his eyes, begging him to wake. You coughed through the smoke as it filled the room, green gas blinding you enough that you could hardly make out Bucky’s features as he laid mere inches from you.

Your body began to feel heavy and you knew you’d succumb to the gas soon enough. There was no word from Steve or Nat on the coms, only an eerie silence listening in. Slowly, you lowered yourself to the ground, rested your head against Bucky’s chest – as if to pretend for only a moment that it was merely sleep you sought. It was only a bad dream. By morning you would wake at home in the comfort of your shared bed.

There was no fighting the pull on your consciousness. It dragged you to the darkness as you listened to the steady thump of Bucky’s heart through the thick layers of Kevlar. Lulling you to sleep as poison filled your lungs.

***

“It’s been too long since he’s been wiped,” a voice whispered to a quiet room. Distant – like it echoed from the end of a long tunnel. “He’s too unstable like this.”

You groaned, willing your eyes to open though they felt impossibly heavy. Weight burrowed onto your limbs, paralyzing you, though you sensed it was the aftermath of whatever drug was in the green mist you’d inhaled.

Slanting your eyes open, you caught a blurred image of Bucky propped against the wall. He was unrestrained. Two guards stood on either side of him holding tasers strong enough to knock out a rabid animal. The tips of Bucky’s fingers began to twitch – the slight movement promising he wouldn’t take long to wake from the drug induced haze.

“We won’t be able to control him unless he’s under,” a second voice continued, one of two men stood huddled in the corner of the room wearing long, white coats with several pens tucked into their breast pockets. They were thin and meek in comparison to the soldiers flanking Bucky; stealing concerned glances at the former Winter Soldier.

“The chamber is ready for him now,” the first agreed, a short a round looking man with thin rimmed glasses and cheeks redder than the mark of Hydra’s emblem on his jacket. “We must hurry before he has the strength to fight back.”

Whatever clouded your mind and body vanished in an instant as your gaze followed the pointed hand of the scientist. It was as if you were drenched in ice water – awareness snapping back to your bones with the full force of freight train.

It was worse than what you had imagined.

The long, countless wires running along the floor strapped into the thick metal frame. A bed made of unforgiving steel and iron discolored over centuries of use. A door with latches and locks trailing up the entirety of the border. Frost clinging to the condensation of the small glass window and a violent hissing sound as a cold breeze blew through the tube at the top of the chamber.

The cryochamber.

Heart pounding, you stayed as still as your body could manage in effort to not alert the men of your regained consciousness. You stared at Bucky, desperately willing him to wake before the scientists gave the order to have his unconscious body thrown into cryo. Your nails dug into your palms. Blood seeped onto the floor as the scientists muttered quickly to one another, adjusting dials on the machine that plagued Bucky’s dreams and fidgeting with the ends of their sleeves.

Slowly, Bucky’s eyes fluttered open. Still sedated, still hazy, but he found you within seconds. Relief swelled in your chest, though it was not enough to overtake the clutch of panic over your heart. Bucky flexed his hands, testing his body’s response. He gave you a short nod, barely noticeable to the guards standing above him, signaling for your ready. You steadied yourself on your breath and returned the nod.

On cue, you both jumped from your seemingly helpless positions and lunged to attack. Before you could knock them out, one of the scientists managed to sound the alarm. A bright red light flooded the room, a roaring siren blaring in your ears. The smaller of the two men – the one who had alerted for backup – held his hands in the air as you stalked closer, his terrified gaze glancing down at the unconscious body of his colleague. If he was expecting mercy from you, he had gravely misjudged who he was dealing with. It took one blow for him to fall.

At the other end of the room, electricity buzzed through the short gaps in the siren’s scream as the bright ends of the tasers flared. Sadistic smirks lifted the edges of the guards' mouths, as if they were waiting for an opportunity to maim the Winter Soldier. If one so much as grazed Bucky’s skin, it could bring him to his knees in seconds. You didn’t want to imagine the voltage on the ends of those batons or whether a strike might stop your heart before you could even reach him.

It didn’t stop you from sprinting towards him anyway.

But you only made it a few steps before an arm latched around your wrist and yanked you back.

“Where do you think you’re going, princess?” One of the guards hissed, a gold tooth glaring under the reflection of the red alarm overhead. Two of his friends snickered behind him – the backup the cowardly scientist had called for before you knocked him out.

Not bothering to deem his rather unoriginal taunt a response, you barreled a roundhouse kick to his ribs instead, knocking him off balance. He stumbled a few paces, sneering a crude insult under his breath. The others charged after you, earning a fist to their ribs, throat, and temple, before you shove the sole of your boot directly to the heart of their chests just as Natasha demonstrated for you in the ring weeks earlier. They dropped like flies, and you smirked as you straightened your back, reminding yourself to thank her later.

You turned back to Bucky, who had taken out one of the guards, though the other had managed to acquire both batons. His eyes flashed to you in warning, urging you to hold your ground, telling you that he had it handled. Those tasers were no joke and it was taking all his concentration not to let the burning edges take him out.

You gritted your teeth, watching from your safe distance. The electricity singed the ends of Bucky’s sleeve on the last swing and he hissed, his face contorting in pain from even the smallest brush. Screw that. You were going to stand on the sidelines while he suffered. Not in this godforsaken place.

You sprinted toward him and wasted no time before you dove the edge of your elbow between the guard’s shoulder blades. He cried out, losing his stance for only a second – but it was all the opportunity Bucky needed to gain the advantage. One hit to the sternum, another to the stomach, and the guard’s grip on the taser slacked. Bucky caught it before it could hit the ground, not offering the same reprieve to the guard before his nose broke against the tile.

Bucky exhaled, his chest rising rapidly as his eyes slowly lifted to you. A flash of panic coursed through him as he tensed, a hand suddenly reaching out for you, but you were pulled quickly out of his grasp. An arm slung over your collar as the cold press of a barrel dug against your temple, stilling your attempts to pry free.

“Go ahead, princess,” the guard sneered, his breath sticky and hot against your cheek. “Give me a reason to pull the trigger.”

You froze, gaze centered solely on Bucky. His body was rigid, his grip on the baton so tight you wondered if it might snap under his strength. His eyes darted back and forth, his thumb inching closer to the trigger for the taser, and you knew he was calculating his next move – how to get you out of the arms of the guard without the gun going off.

“Don’t even think about it, Soldat,” the guard hissed, waving the gun in Bucky’s direction before it returned to your temple. It pressed against you hard enough to tilt your head, unable to withstand the pressure. “Drop it. Now.”

Bucky hesitated, his eyes meeting yours. You could see the resistance filtering through the blue of his eyes – the desperation to defend himself smothered by his need to keep you from being harmed. Slowly, he did as he was ordered and released the taser from his grip. The baton now on the floor, Bucky nudged it with his boot so it slid to the guard. He raised his arms defensively in the air – tension burning through his shoulders.

“Interesting...” the guard pondered. You could practically feel his smirk rising against your neck.

“You have me, okay? I’m what you want, right? Let her go,” Bucky demanded, though he was in no position to do so. The guard yanked you backwards, dragging you to the center of the room, leaving Bucky to follow.

“I’ve heard rumors of the woman who claimed the cold heart of our greatest weapon, but I never expected it to make you so docile,” the guard taunted. “But not to worry. We’ll make quick work of you. Such weakness won’t be tolerated by Hydra.”

“Fuck Hydra,” you sneered, yanking against the guard’s hold. You kicked your heel to his shin, pleased at the whine that slipped through his yellowed teeth. “He’s not going anywhere with you!”

“Quiet, bitch!” The barrel of the gun jabbed into your neck, enough that you started to choke against it. Gasping for air against the pressure suffocating your windpipe, you dug your nails until the guard’s forearm, blood trickling in your wake, though he didn’t relent. Bucky’s hands raised a little higher, the subtle tells of panic fracturing through the seemingly stoic nature of his calm expression.

“Okay, okay!” Bucky eased, trying to get the guard to turn his attention from you. Only when the gun released from your throat, returning to the soft flesh on your temple, did Bucky dare to speak again. “What do you what?”

“I think you already know, Soldat.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed, the muscle growing taunt under the skin. His otherwise stoic features gave away little to what he was thinking, to the burning rage coursing under his skin or the panic seeping into his veins. You'd spent too many nights coaxing his demons away, too many hours memorizing the lines on his face, too much time falling in love with every inch of the man before you to not recognize fear on his face when it grabbed ahold of him.

All it took was a subtle twitch of his gaze.

The chamber.

“No,” you choked out, the word barely audible through the hoarse ache in your throat. “No!”

“Go on, Soldat,” the guard instructed, gesturing to the cryochamber. The amusement in his voice was sickening, churning deep into your stomach as each word slithered off his venomous tongue.

Bucky swallowed, looking to the chamber. His right hand curled to a fist, his chest struggling to find pace with each new breath, but still – he eased himself from the edge of panic. His shoulders relaxed; his hand unclenched. Slowly, ocean blue returned to you and your stomach dropped to a free fall, your knees nearly giving way under the hold of the guard.

Because what coated Bucky’s features was no longer the fear you’d witnessed in the early hours of the morning, when sweat beaded into his hair and his pulse climbed beyond what his heart could handle. But instead, the lines on his face sank to a semblance of resignation that made you want to scream until your lungs gave out.

It was acceptance.

For what he was about to do. For what he would willing subject himself to again if it meant you walked out of this room alive.

Nausea crept up your throat, bile burning on your tongue, as you watched Bucky slowly walk toward the chamber.

“No!” Your voice was shattered as the word broke past cracked lips. You struggled against the grip of the guard, but he only pressed the barrel of the gun tighter to your head, surely bruising the skin. You barely felt it, not as Bucky took each step closer to the chamber that had haunted his dreams just hours earlier. You could still feel the damp fabric of his shirt under your hands, the slight trembling of his body as you held him. It was etched into your memory – burned there. And he took another willing step toward it.

“Don’t do this,” you cried out, whining under the strain of the gun jarring into your temple. “Bucky, please. You don’t have to do this! Just fight back! Fight back!”

“Get back in your fucking storage, Soldat,” the guard taunted with a sickening laugh, ignoring your pleas.

Rage burrowed into your veins at the reflexive flinch over Bucky’s shoulders, how he swallowed back the shame, the humiliation, and set a hand against the machine that would be his tomb. It cracked something in you – snapped your last remaining thread of self-preservation and you swung your elbow back at the guard’s ribs with as much force as you could manage.

The barrel of the gun slipped as it rung out – the echo shattering your eardrum into a numbed, high pitch ringing. You dove for the guard.

Through the chaos, you did not hear the door swing open, nor the influx of a dozen Hydra agents swarming the room. Vision blurring to pure red, you did not see the paralyzing fear in Bucky’s eyes as he sprinted into action – how he took out nearly three men on his way to you.

The golden tooth guard laid upon the floor, still holding the gun in his hands as you towered over him, though this time – it was his eyes that bore crippling fear as you brushed away the stream of blood from your temple.

It only took a well-placed kick to his wrist to slack his hold on the gun. He whimpered, crawling back along the floor to escape you. But there was nowhere he could go. Nowhere to hide. You swore you’d kill any man who dared to put Bucky back in that godforsaken coffin and you’d do it without a trace of remorse. You’d take your time with him. Make sure he knew what would happen if he dared to threaten the Winter Soldier in your presence.

Just as you bent to retrieve the gun, intent on ending this fight, a scream broke through the ringing in your ears – one you’d heard more often than you ever cared to admit, a scream that often woke you from your sleep and haunted your silences.

Bucky.

He was on his knees as you frantically turned in search of him, overwhelmed by the number of Hydra agents surrounding him. His eyes were falling heavy, his body swaying as he clutched his ribs. Smoke filtered from the frayed edges of his suit between his fingers, around the bloodied purple and red marks on his skin. Above him, two of the Hydra guards flared the ends of their tasers, grinning wildly at one another.

You moved to fire single headshots into each of the guards, but your vision was beginning to fade. Doubling. Circling. Muscles suddenly aching with heaviness. The gun slipped from your grip and you stumbled backwards until you fell into the hard frame of a body, arms quickly encasing around you to hold you still.

“Get her out of here!” Bucky's distorted voice shouted through your haze. Blood smeared over your vision, dripping from the wound running from your temple to the center of your forehead. You could hardly keep yourself conscious, but you willed your eyes open on panic alone – watching as the guards stabbed the burning end of the taser into Bucky’s ribs again, his cries sinking straight to your stomach.

The man keeping you steady hesitated on Bucky’s order and you used the advantage to try to break free of his hold, but you were too weak, your body too exhausted. Watching helplessly as another taser burrowed into Bucky’s ribs was enough to break you from your fog.

“No! I’m not leaving you!” you cried, blood spewed from your lips with every word. You were in no condition to fight, no condition to aid the blur of auburn hair and black leather as Natasha did her best to subdue an increasing number of assailants.

“Steve!” Bucky ordered. Tears burned down the sides of your face at the crack of desperation in his voice. The guards shoved his weakened body toward the chamber. “You promised me! Do it now!”

You could feel the resistance coursing through Steve’s body as he held you on your feet – the sudden anger rushing in through the taunt flex of his muscle. But he began to drag you towards the exit anyway, even as Bucky trembled on the floor, his body seizing from the sudden surge of electricity. You screamed as if the tasers had plunged straight to your own heart.

“Y/n, listen to me! We have to go!” Steve urged; his voice strained. “There’s too many of them!”

Sobs tore through your body as Steve hauled you from the room. Natasha followed quickly behind, clearing as much of a path as she could to keep the Hydra agents from swarming you. Your attempts to break free were useless – even if you were at full strength. Steve was too strong, the serum too powerful. There was nothing you could do to stop what was about to happen.

You were going to leave your heart behind.

Leave him to the people who broke him.

The last thing you saw before your vision caved in was the Hydra guards’ sickening grins as they dragged Bucky’s unconscious body to the open cryochamber. The darkness that followed was no relief.

***

It was a betrayal to sit within the safety and comfort of the compound’s walls. A betrayal to let Helen bandage the torn flesh on your forehead from where the bullet grazed your skin. A betrayal to clean the blood from your suit and your hair in favor of fresh soaps and warm towels. A betrayal to breathe as Bucky was kept hostage by Hydra in that fucking chamber.

Your arms were crossed firmly over your chest, your back slumped into the conference room chair. Somewhere at the head of the table, Fury was giving orders to stand down, to stay put until a plan was put into place and ‘Sergeant Barnes could be extracted efficiently.’

You knew what that meant – a shit ton of red tape and days of sitting around waiting on approval from a board of wealthy old men who never left the safety of their cozy penthouse offices. Waiting for them to deem Bucky’s freedom a necessary commodity to SHIELD; to decide that his life was work the risk of a rescue mission. They sat in their leather chairs, behind their marbled desks, and weighed the worth of Bucky Barnes’ life.

Screw that.

“I want confirmation from you, Agent Y/L/n,” Fury ordered from the head of the long table.

You glanced up at him, face blank. You hadn’t a clue what the last thing he said was, but you suspected he was ordering you to stay on base, to not go after Bucky yourself. The entire room was watching you, studying you as if you might snap under the weight of the last twenty-four hours.

Natasha sat in the chair across from you, her eyes the only feature giving way to the concern lingering under the stoic surface. Sam hovered from the door at the back of the room – not having been on the mission himself and still, he argued his way into the debrief room when word broke the team was coming back to base one less than when they left.

But Steve – Steve was standing next to Fury, one hand on his belt, the other leaning against the table. All high and mighty. He was the one who dragged you from that room. He was the one who forced you to leave Bucky behind. If anyone should shatter under the guilt of what happened, it should be him.

“Agent Y/L/n,” Fury repeated.

You swallowed back bile. “I won’t go after Barnes.”

Fury exhaled a sigh of obvious relief, turning to the rest of the team. “Sit tight. I’ll get word to you when we have clearance for a rescue op.”

You kicked out your chair and stormed from the room the second you were dismissed, unable to stand choking back the same air as the people who would willing leave Bucky in the arms of Hydra.

There was little else centering you than pure determination and rage as you shoved open the door into your room. You didn’t allow yourself to look at the unmade bed – the sheets still crumpled from the aftermath of a nightmare Bucky had fallen prey to. You didn’t stop to notice Bucky's t-shirt hung over the edge of the lounge chair in the corner of the room or the rows of photographs on the dresser. You couldn’t. You'd collapse if you did and you’d be no use to him then.

You grabbed your suit from the closet and fisted it into your backpack. There was no way Fury would let the armory dispense you a weapon, so you'd have to make due to with the handgun Bucky kept under his nightstand. It was heavier than your usual choice, but you were left with limited options. You’d storm a Hydra base on your own with nothing but your bare hands if you had to.

By the time you made it to the landing bay, Steve was waiting for you at the mouth of the jet. He was dressed in full combat gear as if he was prepared for you to try to take the jet on your own, as if he was ready to fight to keep you from going after the man who was supposed to be his best friend.

“Get the hell out of my way, Rogers.” You walked past Steve with little resistance, tossing your backpack to the row of seats in the front of the jet. “You’re not going to convince me to let this go, so don’t bother. You can kick me off the team after I bring Bucky home.”

Steve clenched his jaw, a tight line across his lips as if restraining himself. Just as you slid into the pilot’s seat, Steve slammed a hand to the trigger to close the ramp, closing himself inside the jet with you. You turned back to him, annoyance and surprise furrowing your brow.

“You think I wanted to leave him behind? Is that it?” Steve snapped, coming up behind you and yanking the pilot’s headphones from your grip. He gestured for you to stand and you did so cautiously, watching as he took your intended seat behind the dashboard.

“You think I’m not sick at the thought of leaving him to those monsters? After all he’s been through?” Steve gritted his teeth, flipping switch after switch until the board began to light up. Panic ensued below on the landing bay – SHIELD agents running around frantically trying to figure out how to stop Captain America from taking off.

“It fucking kills me, Y/n,” he hissed. Then, he slammed his hand against the switchboard harsher than you suspected he meant to. A dent was left behind on the knob under his palm when he pulled it back. He winced at the red mark on his skin.

“Captain Rogers, stand down!” a sudden voice echoed through the jet – air control.

He ignored the command, flipping a few more switches until the jet engines roared to life.

“He’s a brother to me,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard the frantic efforts of the SHIELD agents attempting to keep him on base. “My best friend. Leaving him there gutted me. If you think I was going to just stand by while we wait on some bureaucratic schmucks to give us permission to after him, you don’t know me very well at all.”

There was anger in his voice. Resentment. Perhaps, if you let yourself acknowledge it, a sliver of betrayal.

“I jumped out of a plane into Nazi territory for him. Against the orders of my superiors, mind you. When everyone told me he was beyond saving,” Steve reminded you, his knuckles white as he clenched the wheel. “Hell, I was a fugitive for him, Y/n. And you think I’d just leave him there?”

You gaped at him, unable to respond. Guilt burned warm in your cheeks.

“This is a direct order!” air control called again. “Stand down, Captain!”

Steve turned off communications, nearly breaking the transmissions nodule in the process. He let out a heavy exhale, and for the first time since you returned to base, you noticed the dark circles under his eyes, the worry lines running over his forehead.

“He made me swear an oath to him. Did you know that?” Steve said, his voice softer now. You sank into the co-pilot chair beside him, a slow shake of your head. He pulled on the yoke, lifting the jet into the air much to the panic of the crews below.

“It was early on,” he continued, “earlier than you’d guess, I think. Before you got together. Back when he was pining over you, still convinced he wasn’t worthy of anything good in his life. He made me swear that if it ever came down to... to him or you... that I’d make sure you got out alive.”

Something in your heart splintered, wondering when Bucky had decided your life was worth more than his. “He never told me that.”

Steve smiled, though it was aching. “I don’t doubt that. You never would have put up with it. Clearly.”

“You should have told him that oath was bullshit.” You were surprised then as Steve began to laugh and a tired smile tugged at the edges of your lips. It was an awful thing to ask of someone – to prioritize one life over another. But you knew, on some level beyond what you were willing to admit, that you would have done the same if you were in his position. You’d do a lot worse if it meant keeping Bucky safe.

You already turned your back on SHIELD and disobeyed a direct order by going after him. You didn’t know what would await you when you returned or if you’d still have a home at the compound after what you’d done, but you’d have Bucky safe in your arms again and that was all that mattered. Besides, maybe having Captain America on your side will soften the blow of your misconduct. The suits weren’t as willing to put their poster boy in cuffs as they were with you.

The jet was flying steady through the clouds when the smile on Steve’s face began to fade, slowly sinking as he stared out into the sea of pale blue. He glanced over at you then, his gaze lingering on the bandage over your forehead.

“You were shot in the head, Y/n,” Steve finally said, an awful weight pulling on his voice. Before you could argue it was only a graze, that it had barely caused any significant damage, Steve gave you a look that silenced the words on your tongue. “You were bleeding bad. You could hardly stand up straight by the time Nat and I found you. You were in no condition to do anything for him. You would have passed out before you could reach him, and then what? Hydra had both of you? How is that any better? How would that have helped him?”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat, knowing he was right and hating the resignation of it burning through your chest. “I made him a promise too, Steve. I swore I wouldn’t let anyone use that chamber against him, that he’d never be trapped like that ever again. I— failed him, Steve. I left him there... all alone and—and...”

“No,” Steve argued, his grip on the yoke tightening. “Bucky knew what would happen and he begged me to get you out of there anyway. He knew what he was risking by staying behind.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you fought against the lump in your throat. It was too much – the thought of Bucky willingly stepping foot into his nightmares if only to ensure you survived. This wonderful man who dared to question his own worth was beyond anything you could ever deserve. Your heart ached for him.

Steve gently reached out and brushed the fallen tears with the sleeve of his jacket, the rough material scratching your skin. He offered you a sad smile.

“Bucky also knew you’d move heaven and earth to get back to him,” Steve added, certainty clear in his voice. “And we will, okay? We’ll bring him home.”

You nodded, sinking back into your chair. The sky resembled the soft fragments of pale blue you knew so well – the lighter shades of Bucky’s eyes. You brushed the wetness from your cheeks.

***

Once you landed, Steve wordlessly handed you a com. You took it without question and fitted it into your ear, adjusting the device until it settled comfortably.

“Welcome back, kids,” Natasha’s voice purred through the coms. Your eyes shot to Steve, who gave you an amused smirk in return. “Hope you didn’t think we’d let you disobey direct orders and infiltrate a Hydra base on your own.”

“I’ve gotten in enough trouble over metal man already,” Sam chuckled. “What’s another strike on the record?”

You clenched your jaw enough to ache, trying to stop the sudden swell of emotion at the sound of their voices. You could picture Sam leaning over the edge of Natasha’s desk, the two of them huddled around a computer screen in the dark of a locked room they’d commandeered back at the compound.

You weren’t alone in this. Bucky wasn’t alone in this.

You looked at Steve, eyes glistening with tears, and he set a warm hand on your shoulder and squeezed.

You and Steve loaded up with as many weapons as you could strap to your suits without impacting your range of movement. A quiet calm swept through the jet with every click and latch of a holster. You could spot the Hydra base through the break in the trees – a simple, concrete frame that looked like it could have been decades abandoned.

You kept both hands on your weapon as you walked down the open ramp of the jet, your grip aching against the metal.

“Nat’s keeping an eye on us through the security cameras,” Steve explained as you approached the edge of the base. He gestured to the cameras hidden under the paneling of the roof. “And Sam’s—”

A buzzing sound zipped around you – a blur of silver and red as it flew up above the base and shot a single electric pulse. The drone hovered for a moment, waiting patiently, and then a body tumbled off the edge of the roof. You grinned as it flew back down to meet you.

“Nice work, Sam,” you said, looking right into the camera.

“His name is Redwing,” Sam reminded you, the familiar influx of pride swelling in his voice. You could almost see Natasha roll her eyes beside him as he puffed out his chest.

“Well Redwing can keep watch out here,” Steve ordered, amusement lost from his voice as he looked to the entrance of the Hydra base. A soft chime followed as Natasha must have hacked the security system to unlock the door. The light by the knob shifted from red to green.

You shared a single look with Steve before he pulled open the door and you fired your first shot. The first man went down before he had even glanced to your direction.

One after the other, falling in short precision before a finger could so much as grace the trigger of their guns. Steve barely had the opportunity to fire a shot himself as you channeled every ounce of the boiling rage searing under your skin into the men who had dared to take Bucky from you. And when that wasn’t enough – when the bullets emptied from the chambers – you left the firearms to the tile and drew your blades.

It was more personal this way.

“So you’ve returned for round two?” a voice seethed ahead, the full shine of a gold tooth reflecting under florescent lights. His lower lip was busted, his right eye swollen and bruised. You did not miss the way his gaze flickered to the bandage running over your forehead – evidence of the shot he nearly ended your life with. A sickening grin curved at the edges of his lips.

“I will enjoy this, princess.” The guard cracked out his knuckles, twisting his neck to one side and the other, readying himself for a fight. He was looking for a rematch – for redemption. Or perhaps, to fuel his pathetic ego from the concussion you’d given him at your last encounter.

But you were in no mood for games.

Without dropping your stare, you flung one of your daggers across the hall with as much force as you could muster. The golden toothed guard didn’t seem to realize he’d been struck with the knife until the momentum shifted his balance. His sinister smile fell as he looked down at the blade embedded in his chest. Shaking hands hovered over the hilt. Then, slowly, he looked up to you as if you might offer him mercy.

You threw the second dagger instead. This time, you struck his heart.

You said nothing as he dropped to his knees and then to his side as blood began to seep from the wounds. He was dead by the time you crossed the hall and bent to retrieve your weapons. It took some effort to yank the blades from the guard’s body.

“Y/n,” Steve called, pausing at the threshold of an open room. His shoulders were stiff, his stance rigid. “Over here.”

Your heart threatened to tear through your ribs as you followed him into the room. A trail of blood still laid upon the floor, scuffle marks obscuring the droplets from where Steve had dragged you away – your heels digging for purchase in the solid ground.

It took nearly all your effort to draw your eyes to the center of the room – to the cryochamber. A low hum sung from the series of computers attached to the machine; the effort exerting from maintaining the freezing temperatures that once sustained Bucky’s body for decades. Steve was speaking into the coms behind you though you could not discern a word of what he said, not as you slowly approached the chamber – locked upon it as if you were drawn in a trance.

A shaken hand lifted to the small window. You couldn’t see beyond the glass – not with the fog of frost and ice obscuring your view – but you knew he was there. The glass was frozen under your fingertips, enough that the sensation startled you enough to flinch as you touched it.

“We’ll have to move fast,” Steve ordered, his voice coming in clearer now as he came up beside you. “Hydra reinforcements will be on us any minute.”

You nodded, trying to still the rapid trembling in your hands as Steve rushed to the control panels. He began pulling at wires and pressing buttons seemingly at random until the distant humming began to fade and the cool blast of air disconnected from the chamber.

Steve swiped at the dark green button in the top left corner of the panel and a latch suddenly unlocked. You lunged for the chamber’s door, propping your foot against the wall to leverage your weight enough to lift it open.

It was like stepping out into a winter storm as the door swung open. Blistering wind rushed out at you, forcing you to shield your eyes. When it passed only seconds later, you lowered your forearm to find ice adhered to the fabric of your suit – the small droplets of your opponents’ blood now frozen in crystalized red.

You understood then why Bucky had such horrific nightmares of this chamber. His skin was an awful shade of blue – his lips purple and chapped. Ice clung to his hair where it had once been dampened with sweat. His chest did not rise. His eyes did not flutter open. He looked... dead.

You reached out to touch his face, fingertips brushing over the ice crystals on the short bristles of his beard. A sob nearly broke you before Steve set a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“I’ve got him,” he eased, guiding you away from the chamber. You stepped back carefully, folding your arms around yourself and sank into the swell of relief as Steve was the one to shoulder Bucky’s weight and pull him from his casket. He hissed at the contact, as if the chill of Bucky’s skin was burning him. Steve’s neck and hands were turning bright red where he held contact to him.

“Sam and I will have medical ready for you when you return,” Natasha’s reassuring voice came through the coms as you led Steve and Bucky through the empty hallways. You kept Steve’s gun raised, though you met no enemies as you inched towards the exit. It was an effort not to trip over the series of bodies laid over the floors. You tried not to look at the pools of blood sticking under your boots.

“And Fury?” Steve questioned; his breathing labored.

“Let me worry about him,” Nat replied without missing a beat.

“Hell, I’m half convinced this was his plan all along,” Sam chuckled. Part of you might have wondered whether he was right if you had any energy left to do anything but hold a hand to the trigger and guide a careful path away from the Hydra base.

Something had to go wrong. It always went wrong.

But somehow, you made it back to the jet without interference.

Steve quickly released Bucky and gently laid him on the soft mats near the cargo hold and rushed to the cockpit. He threw the pilot’s headphones over his ears and fired on the engines before you even closed the ramp to the jet.

“Y/n, can you hear me?” Natasha called through the coms.

You sank to your knees at Bucky’s side, hands hovering over his chilled skin; scared that a single touch might shatter him.

“Yeah,” you replied though it was barely audible.

“It’s just us on here right now,” she told you, a softness to her voice. “You did good, okay? But the work’s not over. Coming out of cryo won’t be kind on his body. Even with the serum he’s at risk for hypothermia. You’re going to need to—”

“I know,” you whispered, nodding though she could not see you. You’d done it enough times, spend enough nights curled around him to draw the warmth back to his body. It had never been like this – his body so lost to the cold that his chest did not rise on his shallow breaths. He wasn’t even shivering.

“We’ll see you on base,” Natasha said in way of goodbye.

Your hands trembled over the zipper of Bucky’s jacket as the jet lifted from the patch of green in the woods behind the Hydra base. You fumbled with it, cursing at your fingers for slipping their grip. It wouldn’t budge no matter how hard you tugged on it. The damn thing was frozen solid. Tears slipped over your cheeks as you pulled back, wincing at the frozen burn marks on your fingertips.

Skin to skin wasn’t an option – not with his clothes frozen onto him like this. But you could still manage, you could still give him some layer of heat; any of it, all of it. You laid down to the floor beside him, draped against his right side. You slid a leg between his and laid your arm over his chest, your palm setting gently against his cheek.

You drew in a shaken breath at the iciness of his skin, but you did not pull away from him. Your thumb slid along his cheekbone, your hand stinging under the cold. Still, you curled against him the best you could. Even as the jet flew soundlessly above the trees and Steve glanced back at you over his shoulder, you did not dare to put space between you and Bucky.

By the time you landed back on back, you were shaking. Steve had to pry you from Bucky’s body; your skin numb and flushed from the cold. The ice crystals had melted from Bucky’s hair and skin, a pool of water under him. You clung to Steve as you watched the medical team quickly board the jet and drag Bucky away. It was like you were paralyzed – frozen – as they carried him from you. Steve set a steadying hand on your back.

Natasha was standing at Fury’s side as Steve gently led you down the ramp, following behind the med team. You glanced over at the director, expecting to find his namesake carved into the lines of his face. But instead, his hands were clasped behind his back, his long signature coat swaying in the wind of the landing bay, and he gave you a short nod.

Perhaps Sam was right.

***

You’d forgotten about the taser burns.

Standing in the far corner of the room, you struggled to catch your breath as the nursed gingerly removed Bucky’s tactical suit – cutting a clean line down the center with scissors when the zipper broke like shards of glass at their attempt to grasp it. Pealing the fabric from his body, you’d expected to see the slight tint of red on his skin – the blood rushing to the surface to warm his body now that the blue tint had dissipated. You’d expected the scars you knew well – scars you’d kissed and brushed loving fingertips over the evenings he looked at them with disgust.

But you’d forgotten the burns.

Two vicious red marks on his ribs. Another set just below his collarbone upon his chest – frighteningly close to his heart. Soft pink marks crept like spider veins away from the burns. Almost like lightning, you realized. The intensity of the tasers carried enough voltage to kill any other man – to kill even a large animal. His burn marks resembled lightning.

Just as the nurses tucked Bucky under the clean sheets, you stepped forward. “Why hasn’t he woken up yet?”

You hated how small you sounded. How afraid. But the nurse offered you a warm smile and gestured towards the door. You followed her, armed folded tight over your chest. You left puddles of cold water in your wake.

“He will,” she told you reassuringly. “Give him some time. The serum will do the work for him. It always has.”

You nodded, brushing away a stray tear before she could notice. When she left, the room was achingly silent. Steve had promised to check in on Bucky after he debriefed Fury and settled the council before they threatened to banish you from the compound. It wasn’t a job you cared to handle right now, not with the chance of Bucky waking without you and still believing he was at the Hydra base. You would not be leaving his side until he woke up. You didn’t care if Fury or his superiors tried to throw you in the Raft and toss the key to the ocean. You weren’t going anywhere.

As you approached Bucky’s bedside, you began to peel away layers of your suit. If you let yourself believe it, you might imagine you were in the comfort of your shared bedroom, the stars still coating the night sky, the window left open overnight. Bucky was only sleeping. It was only a mere chill from the draft trembling his body. Nothing more.

Wordlessly, you slipped under the covers with him, gasping at the still frigid touch of his skin. It wasn’t nearly as bad as when he was on the jet, but there was no barrier between you anymore. Dressed only in your undergarments, you pressed as much of your body against Bucky as you could manage.

Body heat, you remembered, was the fastest way to warm him. You could pile blankets on top of him until the weight sunk his body into the mattress, but it would be nothing in comparison to the heat radiating from your skin as you curled up against him. Even when goosebumps lined your forearms and you shivered against him, your body would guide him home. Your warmth would protect him from the cold.

You didn’t know how long you laid there with him. Long enough for Steve to come by after he was likely berated by the council, though he didn’t stay long. He tucked his hands into his pockets as he looked over his friend, noting the slight flush of pink that returned to Bucky’s cheeks. He promised he would return in a few hours with something for you to eat. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you wouldn’t be able to stomach it.

***

The sun disappeared behind the tree line, leaving only the soft neon glow of the heart monitor charting Bucky’s pulse to illuminate the room. You didn’t attempt to pick at the pasta Steve brought you or move around the noodles to make it look like you’d even tried to swallow a bite. You didn’t have the energy for it.

Bucky’s body had returned to the comforting furnace you knew him to be – warm and strong, steady. But he hadn’t woken. Steve speculated it could be the sedatives Hydra gave him before putting him under. They'd expected him to be under a lot longer than he was. You and Steve were the ones to interrupt that cycle. Perhaps he only needed to shed the sedatives from his system.

It took nearly seven hours since arriving back at the compound before you felt Bucky’s hand twitch.

You gasped, flinching at the sudden sensation. His hand was rested between yours, curled up against your chest as you held his arm as if he were a childhood teddy bear. His fingers flexed in your grip as you carefully observed the movement. A slight groan came from his lips next, and your eyes darted up to his face.

“Bucky?” you whispered, releasing his hand gently to draw your fingertips gingerly over his jawline.

He groaned again, his whole body shifting uncomfortably.

Before you could get his name out again, his eyes shot open. A rapid breath expanded his lungs as if he had just broken the surface after hours underwater. His eyes darted around the room, trying to place where he was and you felt his whole body begin to tense.

“Bucky,” you called again, your voice barely a whisper to avoid startling him. He flinched anyway. “Bucky, you’re okay. You’re home, sweetheart. You’re safe.”

He blinked a few times, the black in his pupils beginning to ease in favor of the blue you adored. He looked at you then, the realization coming back to him. It was as if you could see the memories spinning behind his eyes, the slow recollection of what transpired over the last twenty-four hours: how he’d nearly lost you, the chamber he was forced into after you promised him it would never happen again, the ice that had suspended him in time.

You’d failed him. You knew that. Shame crept into your skin the longer he looked at you. You expected him to be angry, to be resentful of a promise you had no right to make. But instead, he brushed his fingertips over the bandage on your forehead, a frown tugging on the corners of his lips.

“You’re hurt.”

His voice was raspy as he spoke. It brought tears to your eyes.

“I’m fine,” you assured him, but Bucky’s eyes narrowed on you.

“You were shot,” he said, as if the memory was only now coming back to him. “An inch to the left and that bullet would have killed you.”

You swallowed, though your throat was dry. “It didn’t.”

Bucky clenched his jaw, unable to look away from the bandage. It had happened because you fought back, because you could not simply watch as they forced Bucky into that chamber. You didn’t care that you had a gun to your head or that the Hydra agent behind you had the clear advantage. You didn’t care because Bucky was doing what they told him to do simply because he hoped they would spare your life. He was walking towards the chamber, toward his nightmares, and you couldn’t stand it.

You’d do it again.

But you didn’t dare tell Bucky that.

It was your fault he’d even stepped foot toward that damn chamber in the first place. Your fault he went willingly. Your fault that you left him behind to the very same horrors that plagued his dreams. Your fault. Your fault. Your fault.

His nightmares will only get worse now. After all he’d been through, after all the hard work he put in with his therapist, you retraumatized him again. You were the reason he was forced to relive the worst parts of his time under Hydra’s thumb. He may be holding you now, but you knew – you knew – he would not be able to untether that thread, that he’d forever associate you with the promise you’d broken.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” Bucky warned though his voice was gentle. He tugged you tighter against his side, the heat radiating off his body now enough to bring sweat to the nape of your neck and still, you’d never be close enough. He'd never be warm enough. Not after what happened.

“I’m sorry,” you choked out, unable to stop the well of tears from consuming you entirely. You buried your face in the corner of Bucky’s neck. “I’m so sorry, Bucky. I— I failed you. I swore to you I’d never let them hurt you again. I promised I wouldn’t let them take you and I— I left you there and—”

“Sweetheart, stop,” Bucky said again, more urgency to his voice now. The ends of his fingertips curled under your chin, gently lifting you to face him. There was only remorse in his gaze, only love and affection. “I knew Steve would have to drag you out of there. I knew you’d keep fighting for me, even if it meant going down yourself. I saw the blood on your face. I knew you were close to passing out. I begged him to get you out of there for a reason, honey.”

You shook your head, tears slipped past your cheeks. “But I—”

“You didn’t leave me behind,” Bucky insisted. “You didn’t do this to me. Hydra did. Don’t ask me to blame you for what they’ve done.”

Your lips parted in search of an argument, but you couldn’t find one. The softest smile pressed on the edges of Bucky’s lips.

“Besides,” he sighed, his mouth ghosting over your temple as he kissed you, “you came back for me. I knew you would.”

He kissed your forehead next, allowing himself to linger there. You closed your eyes under the feel of him, tears slipping past your cheeks as the warm comfort of his lips.

“I know you’d come for me,” he said again, with enough conviction that your heart began to settle into rhythm with his. Steady beats, mirroring one another – perfectly in time.

“I could still be fired,” you mumbled as you wiped the tears from your eyes, “or arrested. Depends on how good of a defense Steve pitched.”

Bucky chuckled and you could feel the vibration of it in his chest. It was your favorite feeling in the world.

“Steve isn’t one for following the rules of his superiors, so I think you’ll be okay,” he said. “Hard to argue against a successful mission.”

You offered him as much of a smile as you could muster. Bucky traced his thumb over your lower lip, as if to mark the shape to permanence.

“Besides, I won’t let them take you from me,” Bucky added, a cheeky grin stealing the darkness from his eyes, stealing the fear and panic that had once burrowed into the soft shades of blue. “I promise.”

A heaviness sank in your gaze, your smile slipping from you despite Bucky’s protest. “Perhaps we shouldn’t make promises like that anymore.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment, but you could feel his grip on you tightening, pulling you tighter against his chest. “How about a different one then?”

His fingertips settled under your chin, drawing your gaze back to his. You were met with nothing but the warm, gentle affection you’d always known in him.

“How about we promise to find each other?” he offered instead. “No matter what happens, no matter what tries to separate us... We will come for one another. Always.”

Tears swelled in your eyes. “Always.”

As always - thank you so much for reading and for all your kind words ❤️ If you enjoyed this fic, please consider supporting me at my ko-fi account ✨

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n

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animeyanderelover · 8 months

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I am back once again in my Twilight mood and thought that I would write some poly!relationship with my 2 favorite vampires from the Cullens.

Tw: Yandere themes, unhealthy mindset, unhealthy relationship, possessive behavior, obsession, manipulation, gaslighting, threats, stalking, overprotective behavior, isolation, death

Sharing a darling

Alice has definitely caught glimpses of you already in her vision. She knows that Jasper and her have another soulmate somewhere in the world but it is only when your parents decide to move to Forks that she is able to see the bigger picture of everything. She is certainly surprised to find out that that she and Jasper have another soulmate but she doesn't ponder too much about it. Instead she just feels very happy to know that you exist. Edward probably finds out before Jasper but only because he read Alice's mind. He also gives her an astonished look but soon cracks out a small smile as he knows that Alice feels happy about it. She tells Jasper as soon as she has had her vision and it is Jasper who is a tad bit more hesitant to fully grasp the situation. He has been with Alice for such a long time and he loves her so much so he has a hard time fathoming how he could possibly love someone the same way he adores her. He senses her happiness though about the situation so he silently accepts the future.

There is time to prepare for your arrival and it is time that passes by far too slowly for Alice. She's definitely giddy whilst thinking about your arrival and her joyous mood eventually also gets through Jasper who starts looking forward to seeing you, even if he is still a tad bit cautious about all of this. Alice loves telling him what she has seen in her vision and even draws you so that Jasper can see just how cute you are. Alice makes sure that Jasper and her dress up especially well as soon as she knows when exactly you will arrive and where exactly both of them will meet you. She's so eager as she drags Jasper with her on that day and whilst Jasper isn't exactly feeling as optimistic as she is, he doesn't have the heart to deny her what she wants. Both of them don't have to look long for you as their enhanced senses aid them in spotting you quickly and in that moment they really feel like you have been missing all along.

If Alice would still have a heart, it would pound so wildly against her chest right now as she just looks at you and takes in your every curve and feature. She's already mentally gushing over you and can't wait to do everything with you she has already been planning in the months before you moved to Forks. Jasper's doubts completely fade away as soon as he spots you too as he instantly feels the connection. His eyes also observe you with a warm glint in your eyes but differently from Alice, he is also being much more strategic and especially more overprotective. Suddenly he becomes even more aware of his surroundings and if anyone is looking funnily at you as his mind instantly switches to a protective mode, especially since you are a human. Alice notices his more rigid and alerted gaze and nudges him playfully. He can worry later. Both of them should now meet their soulmate.

Jasper takes the backseat for quite a while as he just lets Alice do the job. Not only because he knows that Alice is far more easily approachable than he is since he has a colder appearance but also because he is worried that he might be tempted by your blood. You have a very sweet smell around you and he has still very vividly in mind what happened when Bella cut herself on paper during her birthday. He could never imagine hurting you, his soulmate, yet he knows that it might be more realistic than he might want to admit. It almost feels like he is a thrid wheel for a while and even if Alice tries to include him more since she just knows that he's silently suffering from not being as involved and as close with you as she is already, she respects his wishes. Your joyful appearance in their lives actually motivates him to work harder on his self-control since he would never be able to forgive himself if he would hurt you due to his own lack of self-control.

Alice is a refreshing breeze that just enters your life as she approaches you with confidence and from that day on is always involved. You might be a bit startled by her bold approach but she is surprisingly good in sensing how far she can go from now. She takes the pleasure of being your guide you can run to in search for help since you are new here. Her goal is to be the first person you are really close to because she knows that if she is someone you already know better than others, you will gravitate more to her and rather search for her than ask new people for help. Especially if you are on a more introverted side. In either case, Alice seemingly adjusts flawlessly to your own vibe which allows you to feel more comfortable when around her. Jasper due to his more quiet nature initially spooks you out a bit but she reassures you that her lover is deep down just a big softie. You'll see that soon enough.

If Alice is the one who is visibly present in your life and always makes sure to tell you about the newest fashion, rumors and stories in this small town, Jasper is the one who is always watching over you behind the scenes. He is definitely too protective over you for his own good and that is made all the more worse since you are still only a human. He's the one who is always a few steps behind Alice and you when she excitedly shows you a great shop for clothes or a nice place to consume some beverages and some cakes, even if she sadly can't share the joy of eating and drinking as you do which is why she tries to avoid dragging you to such places. His eyes always seem to scam your surroundings and the people passing by as if he is always prepared to hear something or see something that will indicate that your life is in danger. He is the one who at times even stalks you just to quench that overprotective duty that he feels now that you are part of Alice's and his life.

Edward and Alice, and by extension also the rest of the Cullens, is aware of the tiny bit more illegal activities that Jasper is doing and they definitely have a small talk with him about it. Edward probably can't lecture him too greatly about it as Jasper is quick to remind his adoptive brother of the way he behaved around Bella when she was still a human. He's definitely getting more defensive and even mildly aggressive if someone wants to have a discussion with him about his stalkerish and overprotective tendencies. A tiny part of him might be able to rationalise why they tell him that he is overdoing it but the major part of him just can't think of what he is doing as wrong. He only has your good intentions in mind after all so he is definitely the type of delusional man who will justify some of his more questionable behavior with his feelings and your safety in mind. Alice is the only one who can talk to him without him instantly getting defensive and for her sake he does try to tone his behavior down a bit. Next to his struggles to control himself around human blood though, he seems to have unlocked a new urge he can't quite control.

Jasper only really allows himself to interact more with you when he has more confidence in his skills to control his lust for blood and only then will you finally get to know him so much better. He has always held himself back before out of fear that the scent of your blood might tempt him and you have always interpreted that as him not liking you. Now he proves you wrong though and actually turns out to be much more mellow than his exterior might let on. You are surprised to actually find out just how sensible he seems to be as he always seems to guess your current mood accurately. Whilst Alice seems to be more outgoing and bubbly, Jasper is more introverted and shockingly soft and mellow around you. He always seems so careful around you and sometimes you feel like he is talking to you like one would talk to a baby deer in order to not scare it away. At the same time you also realise that he doesn't seem to be comfortable around other people. He always appears to be slightly more tense and you always notice the protective step he seems to take as soon as someone he doesn't know approaches you.

Honestly though, the combination of their abilities is kind of scary. You essentially have someone who is able to feel and influence your emotions in Jasper and someone who can see the different outcomes of your future in Alice and whilst both of these abilities would be already quite scary by themselves, combined this makes for an even more dangerous mix. You aren't able to hide stuff from both of them because whilst their enhanced senses would probably already allow them to notice that something is wrong, Jasper can additionally sense it in your feelings. Honestly, Jasper can be a bit overbearing due to this strong need he feels to keep you safe and to protect you so as soon as he senses that you are scared, he automatically enters this overprotective mode where he is ready to scare anyone and everything away that frightens you. Additionally he just feels better if he knows where you are and with whom you are at the moment if neither Alice nor him are with you and not knowing your current location always has him worried.

Alice with her ability to see different scenarios of the future also are in the longer run very scary and useful. Whilst it of course allows both of them to prepare and keep you away from potential danger, it also completely enables her to watch over decisions you make and which impact they might have on your future. If she ever has a vision that would show her that you would have to leave Jasper and her, whether this decision was made by yourself or is the result of someone else, she and Jasper always come up with plans to cancel your departure from them. Neither one of them can just allow you to leave them like this, not now when you have become an official part of their lives and hearts. So whilst Alice always has a watch over your future, Jasper can influence your presence directly by controlling your emotions a bit. Neither one of those would ever dare to take it as far as inducing you with false feelings for both of them but at times Jasper just influences your feelings enough to not have you take any rash decisions.

Alice and Jasper have to compromise on how they spend their time with you. Whilst Alice enjoys going shopping with you and dressing you up all cutely, Jasper just prefers to just have the three of you doing something by yourselves. He always feels uncomfortable and pressured when he is around people he doesn't consider his loved ones and that has become a tad bit worse since you have come around. He wants to show you his love and that isn't as possible when he is constantly alerted due to everyone around you. He is already at times a bit more protective around Alice but that is much worse with you who is only a human. He's much more loving and at ease when it is just the three of you. Alice often plans everything though and Jasper lets her. She is creative with her plans and always comes up with something that will be fun and exciting but that doesn't mean that she doesn't consider Jasper's more simple desires to just hang out with only the three of you.

Both of them start planning relatively early on how to tell you about what they truly are. In fact both of them have been considering this as soon as they knew that you exist. Whilst Alice could have done fine without instantly going over how to tell you that they are vampires as carefully as possible, it was probably Jasper who wanted to start thinking about it at such an early stage already. Of course both of them were only able to really start properly planning as soon as both of you started knowing you better. Jasper has always seen him as the biggest risk to spoil the secret so he has been up until now tried his hardest to not slip up with anything. The closer you get to both of them and also by extension the rest of the Cullens, the bigger the chances are that you start finding out. Edward tells both of them after a visit where he also met you that you are already suspicious. Their eye colour, their cold skin and the fact that you have never seen them eating or drinking anything has already roused your suspicion.

Both of them already suspected as much as Edward tells them but hearing it just confirms their suspicions. Both of them know that they should tell you their secret now sooner than later. Alice tries to be more optimistic about everything whilst Jasper is more worried because he fears that you might see Alice and him as monsters after finding out that both of them are vampires. This is probably one of the prime examples of how Jasper uses his abilities though. He makes sure that he influences your emotions and calms you down when the time comes where Alice and him inform you about their true identities so that you don't freak out and allow Alice to calmly explain everything to you. This might be the moment though you silently realise that you probably have little chances to escape as soon as you finally know the truth but weirdly enough don't feel scared or freaked out. Well, thank Jasper for inducing you with such calm and serene feelings to keep you from feeling scared.

#yandere twilight #yandere alice #yandere alice cullen #yandere jasper #yandere jasper hale

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cozy-cinnamon-roll · 7 months

Text

A Princess' Guide to Interrogating a Radio Demon

Fandom: Hazbin Hotel

Pairing: Ler!Charlie, Lee!Alastor (strictly platonic)

Content/Trigger Warnings: tickling, interrogation (in the most playful sense). If there are any trigger warnings you'd like me to add in the future (and/or to this fic), PLEASE let me know! I am always happy to oblige.

This is a ticklefic! If that's not your cup of tea, kindly move along.

This is my first fic for Hazbin Hotel, so any feedback would be welcomed and deeply appreciated! (also, let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future work - I'm quite sure this'll be FAR from my last fic for this fandom hehe)

Hope you enjoy!

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Ever since he'd discovered glam metal, Angel has been blasting it nonstop from his room.

Unfortunately, his room happens to be directly beneath Alastor's... and the insulation in the hotel's walls leaves an awful lot to be desired. The Radio Demon's eye had been in a constant twitch for three days by the time he'd finally had enough.

"Alastor? Have you seen Angel's speakers?"

--------------------------------------------------------------

When Charlie appears in his doorway, the demon in question is sitting comfortably on his couch, sipping a mug of black coffee and reading a newspaper (though Charlie isn't sure how he acquired it - the local paper has been out of print for weeks).

"No. But I've certainly had the displeasure of hearing them."

"They've gone missing. Do you have any idea where they might be?"

"Far away, I hope."

Charlie rolls her eyes and leaves to go consult the other guests. The deer takes a long draw from his mug.

--------------------------------------------------------------

To Alastor's slight irritation, he only enjoys a few minutes of peace before the princess' voice echoes from the hall again.

"Oooh, Al...." Charlie sings.

"What is it, my dear?" the Radio Demon sings back absently.

"Nifty says she saw you with Angel's speakers yesterday."

"Did she?" He flips a page of his newspaper.

"Look, all I need to know is where you put them."

Long pause. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Alastor."

"Whaaat?" Though his eyes haven't left the page, his grin has widened slightly. "You think I'm lying?"

"You're always lying. That's your thing."

"...Touché."

Charlie perches on the sofa beside him.

"Are you gonna tell me where it is or not?"

"Fine. I'll be completely honest with you."

She perks up.

"I would honestly die a second death before subjecting myself to one more note of that infernal garbage."

Alastor's eyes flick up from his paper for the briefest of seconds, just to watch the bubbly princess' face fall into a delightfully exasperated scowl.

"You can't steal someone's stuff just because it annoys you!"

"On the contrary. That's exactly what I did."

Charlie narrows her eyes. "Alastor. You tell me where Angel's speakers are or else."

Alastor chuckles in spite of himself - Charlie's attempts to be intimidating never fail to amuse him.

"What's so funny about that?"

"My dear, I say this with the utmost respect and admiration for your many talents: there's a reason I tend to be the one called upon to scare off demonic threats."

Charlie huffs and crosses her arms. "Just because you're creepier and... more sadistic than me, doesn't mean I don't have ways of making you talk."

"Oh?" Alastor arches a skeptical eyebrow at his paper.

"So you better watch your step, Mister."

"Hmm. You make a compelling case." He flips another page. "Maybe I should tell you where Angel's poor excuse for music is."

Charlie brightens. "Really?"

"No."

The princess deflates.

He's right, of course: even if Charlie figures out a way to make herself legitimately threatening to the Radio Demon... he's the fucking Radio Demon. She may be the Princess of Hell, but she doesn't want to have to rebuild the hotel from rubble all over again.

The two sit in impassive silence for a few minutes - Charlie glaring at Alastor, Alastor staring stubbornly at his paper - until she finally stifles a sigh and slouches against the cushions. He's enjoying this, she just knows it. Sitting there with that stupid grin. He's probably been laughing to himself all night, imagining poor Angel waking up and finding his most prized possession missing.

She finds herself wishing she could make the old deer laugh himself sick sometime, just to teach him a lesson.

...Which is a horrible thought! Charlie's eyes widen, her brow furrowing in self-disgust. She could never bring herself to hurt Alastor, even via laughter.

In fact, she quite likes his laugh - it's a little maniacal, sure, and certainly hard to truly enjoy amid the gory contexts that typically trigger it. But if she knew a way to make him laugh at something other than another person's expense, she'd probably do it all the time... it's just that the things that make him laugh also tend to make Charlie nauseous.

Once again, the princess finds herself completely baffled by her own subjects. How one could be so tickled by anything that goes on down here - the pain, the violence, the gore...

Charlie tilts her head. She may have just gotten an idea.

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If Alastor had happened to cast a quick glance down the couch, the smile creeping across Charlie's face would've been enough to give him real pause.

But since he is instead stubbornly focused on his paper, he is completely unprepared for the fingers that suddenly begin crawling oh-so-gently up his side.

To her initial disappointment, Charlie finds at least three layers of fabric dampening her touch, and aside from a subtle flinch at first contact, Alastor himself remains perfectly still.

But then a low buzz of radio static swells around them. As she probes up his ribs, she can hear a soft crinkle of paper as his grip tightens.

"Charlie..." His voice is oddly clipped.

"Mm?" Charlie takes one glance at his face, and her smile deepens - even Alastor's signature grin can't mask the effect. He's still technically staring at the paper, but his eyes have gone wide and blank. He opens his mouth to continue just as her fingers reach his armpit - and his jaw quickly clamps shut. It's clearly taking everything in him not to squirm.

"Got something to say, Al?" She starts pinching back down his ribcage.

"Mmph!" The giggles start in his chest, bubbling up and fighting to escape through clenched teeth. Soon his shoulders are shaking with the effort of holding them in.

"...Maybe about the location of a certain object?"

No response. The radio demon just curls forward a little, hiding his face in his paper.

Taking advantage of this new posture, Charlie slips her other arm around behind him, and gives a good pinch to both sides of his slender waist.

The demon straightens right back up with an audible gasp and tiny squeak of surprise (that he quickly tries to cover with a cough).

"Charlie! Are you s-seriously trying to-"

"Are you seriously ticklish?"

"No!"

In response she delivers another series of pinches to the same spot. His posture crumples again, until finally he loses his grip on his paper and twists to face her.

"No?" she giggles. And squeezes him again.

"Stop that!" He fumbles at her fingers, trying to pry them off his sides.

Instead Charlie swaps her hands, wrapping her fingers around his waist with both thumbs resting lightly on his stomach... and begins digging them right under his lower ribs.

That finally does it. He flinches back with a little snort, followed by soft but utterly helpless giggles pressed shyly into his hands.

"Awww!" Charlie coos.

"Keheh- f-fuckin'- heheh! - quiet!" His voice cracks amusingly on the last word.

There are about fifteen different things Charlie is dying to say as Alastor goes to pieces with laughter, but she can't think of anything that wouldn't risk embarrassing the poor guy - and humiliating him is the last thing she wants to do. The fact that Alastor hasn't instantly dissolved into shadows (or cursed her across the room) hasn't been lost on the princess; she is NOT about to jeopardize this moment by making him uncomfortable enough to do so.

That said, she is conducting an interrogation here.

"What was that about not being ticklish?"

His clutching at her wrists becomes more frantic. "Don't-!"

Alastor hyperventilates a couple times, trying to get ahold of himself - but then she continues squeezing down the sides of his belly, and he can only collapse into even worse laughter.

"I think I know just how to get you to talk..."

"Nohoho- ahagh, Charlie! Shihihit!"

Charlie shifts onto her knees for better leverage, gives him a gentle push backward, and pins him (surprisingly easily) against the couch. Her snaggle-toothed grin looms over him...

For a split-second, Alastor gets a flash of what his victims must've seen moments before they debuted on his show.

But he's pretty sure this isn't quite how they felt about it. He's already shaking with anticipatory giggles, grinning back at her wider than ever. And the giddy panic behind his eyes quickly forms an unlikely union with defiance.

"Do your worst, my dear."

--------------------------------------------------------------

To be continued... pt. II is already in the works, so stay tuned!!

Until next time - hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! 💕

💜 - Cozy

#lee!alastor #ticklish!alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel tickles #oh deer he's ticklish #ler!charlie #hazbin hotel tickling #ticklefic #tickle fic #tickle headcanons #charlie morningstar #hazbin hotel charlie #hazbin hotel spoilers

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fantasyescapes17 · 1 year

Text

Manners (Part 1)

Viscount Joshua Hong is by far the most eligible bachelor in London. Rich, handsome, and renowned for his excellent manners and refined tastes. Young woman would kill for the chance to be the Viscount's chosen bride. But nobody can quite determine which of the young ladies he prefers, and you are beginning to have your doubts. Is the Viscount really as gentlemanly as the ton seems to think?

Genre: Joshua Hong x Female!reader. Regency!AU (It's sort of Bridgerton-esque in the sense that I give zero attention to historical accuracy and prioritize aesthetics lmao) You are a sibling to all the Lees (Woozi, DK, Dino) so your last name is Lee but the reader has no other specific characteristics, physical or otherwise.

Word Count: 3.2k+

Part 2

Series Masterlist [I would highly recommend reading the earlier stories in this series, Patience, and Candle, before this one but it's not strictly necessary.]

It was a warm evening in June when your life suddenly changed.

You had, at that point, been out in London society for almost two years without having received a single marriage proposal. Being the third child and eldest daughter of the Lee family, your responsibilities were far greater than your charms.

Most young ladies your age possessed a bountiful dowry and carefully developed talents to attract a husband. Instead, you possessed the responsibility of managing five siblings, an absentee father, and a mediocre dowry. Only three of the siblings were younger than you (but really, from the way he sometimes behaved, Seokmin might as well have been younger than you).

Mr. Lee (your father) was often away and busy managing affairs of the estate. He had ceased to care for society or matrimony since the death of your beloved mother. The responsibility of ensuring your siblings were raised well had naturally fallen on you, the eldest daughter. You did not entirely resent the circumstances. You loved all your siblings equally- even sullen Jihoon and cheeky little Chan- but your future was quite clear.

You would probably end up an old maid.

Or you would have, if not for that fateful June evening when Viscount Joshua Hong appeared unannounced on the doorstep of your London home.

—----------------------------------------------------------

The kitchens were in an uproar.

“These noblemen are quite careless!” the cook cried out as she struggled angrily to light the large coal fire. “To come around unannounced for dinner-the Viscount, you say- oh, what am I supposed to serve him? I was going to prepare a simple soup and fish for the family supper but that will certainly not suffice for a Viscount!”

You tried in vain to calm the cook.

“Really, Dotty, it is all right- I am sure the Viscount will not demand anything more than what we usually eat,” you told her gently.

“Of course he will not demand it- I am quite aware that the Viscount Joshua Hong has the most excellent manners. He should likely eat stale bread without complaint if we served it to him. But how would I ever be able to live with myself if I did that? Oh- how unfortunate that the Viscount should come for supper on the one night when there is no venison to be had…”

There was no calming the cook down. You sighed.

“Dotty, I must go upstairs to dress for dinner. Please do not worry and serve whatever you are able. The Viscount is a good friend of Jihoon and he will not mind a simple supper after having arrived unannounced.”

Dotty gave you a miserable look. “I should very much have liked to serve the Viscount my venison pie…”

You laughed. “I shall ask Jihoon to invite him to dinner again soon; and you shall be told well in advance so that you can serve your venison pie. But soup and fish will do for tonight.”

“Yes, miss…”

You left the kitchens through the back entrance and hurried up to the bedchambers through a side corridor; carefully avoiding the drawing room where Viscount Hong sat in conversation with your father and older brothers.

It was perfectly understandable that Dotty had panicked when the Viscount suddenly appeared at the doorstep of your London home to call on your brothers.

Viscount Joshua Hong was not only one of the richest noblemen in London, he was also the most handsome eligible bachelor. He was the epitome of impeccable manners and fine breeding. The entire ton had been waiting with bated breath ever since it had become public knowledge that he was in search of a wife.

You could not deny that you were equally curious. Any young lady that could catch the eye of Viscount Hong would surely be perfection incarnate. You could not think of a single woman that could compare. Perhaps the Duchess of Graham? Even she did not possess Viscount Hong's excellent manners.

As you reached the top of the stairs, you discovered that the entrance to your bedroom was barred by two of your younger siblings. Chan looked upset and angry, while little Nessie looked delighted.

You took a deep breath and prepared yourself for the onslaught.

“Why am I not allowed to sit with the gentleman downstairs?” demanded Chan, at the same time that Nessie cried, “Is it true Viscount Hong is here? Does he really have a golden carriage?"

You ushered them into your room before their loud voices could carry downstairs to the drawing room.

"You are not yet old enough to sit with the gentlemen," you told Chan firmly, before turning to Nessie. "Yes, Viscount Hong is here and you will be allowed to see him at supper. No, his carriage is not made of real gold."

"I'm sixteen-" Chan protested.

"Sixteen is not old enough."

"It's too old to be sitting upstairs with the girls," Chan insisted with a pout.

You sighed. "Stay upstairs for now. After supper, if Father permits, you may sit with the gentlemen," you told him. "Now go dress for supper quickly. Both of you."

You called for your maid to help you dress and then wrestled little Nessie and Lily into appropriate gowns. Fortunately, Chan managed to make himself look presentable on his own and you were able to get them all downstairs in time for supper.

The gentlemen were already seated for dinner; your father at the head of the table and Viscount Hong to his right along with your brothers- Mr. Lee Jihoon and Mr. Lee Seokmin.

"Remember to curtsey," you reminded your little sisters quietly.

They both curtsied prettily for the benefit of Viscount Hong, who greeted you and your younger siblings warmly with a handsome smile and bright eyes. He was characteristically patient when little Lily suddenly threw a tantrum and insisted on being allowed to sit beside him.

"I will sit beside the Viscount, you never allow me to sit beside the Viscount!" Lily cried, stomping your feet. You laughed nervously, taking your six-year old sister gently by the arm.

"Come now, Lily, I've told you before that you must behave when we have company-" you scolded lightly.

"I should very much like to sit beside Lily," Viscount Hong said with a kind smile, before turning to your father quickly. "Unless, sir, you should have any objection."

Your father waved a hand dismissively. "Let the child sit where she likes, we must get on with dinner."

Jihoon surrendered his seat to little Lily and moved around the table to sit beside you instead. You lowered your voice and mumbled in a low voice to your elder brother.

"Of course we are delighted to have the Viscount here for dinner, it's not that anyone dislikes his company," you mumbled. "But perhaps you could ask him to give us notice next time? Dotty was quite a mess about what to serve for dinner."

Jihoon coughed into his napkin.

"I don't know why he is even here," your brother whispered. "It's quite unlike Joshua. He is usually incredibly well-mannered but really, neither Seokmin nor I invited him here tonight and he simply won't leave."

You looked at your brother in surprise- you had thought that the Viscount was surely here to discuss urgent business with your brothers or father.

"Oh…"

The servants entered with dinner, so your conversation with Jihoon was cut short. You were forced to turn your attention to the Viscount, who sat opposite you and was listening patiently to a fairy tale that Lily was reciting.

"Lily, stop boring the Viscount," Chan scolded her lightly. He turned to the older gentleman with bright eyes. "Viscount Hong, is it true that you have five thoroughbred horses and three pure white Arabian horses in your stables? And that the Arabians were brought from overseas?"

Joshua smiled. "Yes, that is correct. Are you interested in horses, Chan?"

Chan flushed. "I've studied them a little."

"He's studied them far more than he's studied mathematics," you said lightly. Chan frowned but Viscount Hong's dark eyes flickered towards you in amusement. He gave you a small smile.

"I see your sister doesn't like your interest in horses," Joshua remarked.

"My sister doesn't like anything interesting," Chan complained and you nearly choked on your soup in embarrassment before giving your younger brother a stern look.

"Chan! "

But Joshua only turned to look at you with his usual kind smile. "If you can vouch for Chan having completed his mathematics, Miss Lee, then I should be glad to invite him to visit our stables next week to see the horses."

Chan's eyes widened in delight and he jumped out of his seat.

"Viscount Hong, would you really-"

"I believe the Viscount said the invitation was dependent upon you completing your mathematics," you reminded your brother calmly. "So sit down and finish your dinner. And thank you, Viscount Hong, I would not want us to intrude upon your hospitality."

Viscount Hong smiled. "I do not consider it an intrusion. It is the least I can do."

"We are grateful, all the same."

Your father cleared his throat as he finished his soup. The senior Mr. Lee was not generally a social man, but even he could not ignore the need to engage in polite conversation when there was a man of such noble standing as the Viscount at his table.

"Were you in attendance at the Hastings' ball yesterday, Viscount Hong?" your father asked. "My children tell me it was quite a wonderful event. And since you are looking for a wife, I suppose attending these events is of more importance than ever."

Joshua nodded respectfully at your father.

"Indeed, sir, I was in attendance. In fact- I was fortunate enough to have danced once with your daughter," Joshua replied with a small smile.

You nodded. Viscount Hong was very much an in-demand dance partner, but you were grateful that he had still asked you to dance with him a number of times over the course of the season. You knew better than to read too much into a mere dance, however. Joshua also regularly danced with plenty of women far more eligible than you- Miss Jeon, the Duchess of Graham, Miss Williams, Miss Yoon…

It was a long list that you did not care to repeat.

Mr. Lee nodded. "Yes- I am sure my daughter is quite grateful for your company."

You flushed in embarrassment at the implication that the Viscount had danced with you out of pity, but the topic of conversation was quickly rerouted by Chan- who had been unable to take his mind off the horses.

"Viscount Hong, when you said that I might visit your stables next week," Chan pressed eagerly. "Which day of the week were you suggesting, as I have my lessons on Thursdays…"

You frowned. "Chan!"

Viscount Hong laughed. "It is quite all right, Miss Lee. Shall we say Wednesday, Chan?"

"Wednesday sounds excellent…"

The supper passed in a pleasant manner. Joshua's unannounced arrival was certainly not convenient but you had to admire how smoothly the gentleman blended himself into your family supper. He was polite, but without showing any of the airs and superiority that someone of his station could have displayed around your family.

He showed enthusiasm for Lily's stories, patiently answered Chan's questions about horses and even joked around with Jihoon and Seokmin, whom he had known for many years. You knew that Viscount Joshua Hong was as far, far, far out of your reach as a man could possibly be but…

Well, there was no harm in silently admiring such a wonderful specimen of the opposite gender, was there?

You ushered your sisters upstairs to bed after dinner. Chan, stubborn as ever, insisted on being allowed to stay in the drawing room while the gentlemen smoked a pipe. You left him be: disciplining Chan was quite out of your hands and you had decided that you would begin to leave it to Jihoon.

You had just put the girls to bed and were about to undress for bed yourself when there was a frantic knocking at your door.

You opened the door, startled.

"Chan?"

Your brother was pink in the face and his eyes wide as he squeezed inside your room and closed the door behind him.

"Shhh! You will not believe what is happening downstairs!" Chan hissed.

You raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"We were all in the drawing room- and suddenly Viscount Hong and Father went into Father's study alone. Even Jihoon and Seokmin agreed that it was extremely strange for them to go off alone so I snuck into the study to listen in on their conversation and-"

"Chan!" you scolded him. "You cannot be eavesdropping on Father's-"

"You may scold me later! Only listen for now- Viscount Hong has asked father for permission to offer for your hand!" Chan whisper-yelled.

You froze.

"Sorry, my what?" you asked.

"Your hand," Chan repeated. "In marriage?" he added unhelpfully.

Your face felt hot. "Don't be foolish. You must have misunderstood their conversation. Viscount Hong would certainly marry a woman more suited to his station. To even suggest otherwise is nonsense-"

Chan looked angry. "I know what I heard, sister! He clearly said 'I seek your blessing to offer for your daughter's hand'- and surely, he is not intending to marry Lily!"

"He is not intending to marry me either-"

There was another sharp knock on your door and both you and Chan jumped, startled. You opened it to find a maid standing outside and she greeted you with a bow.

"Miss Lee- your father has requested you to come downstairs to his study."

—-----------------------------------------------

You went downstairs in a mixture of disbelief and anxiety. It was impossible that Viscount Joshua Hong had made an offer for your hand- Chan meant well but he was hardly the most brilliant young boy of his age. He had clearly misunderstood something.

You entered your father's study anxiously.

"Father?"

Mr. Lee stood from his desk. Joshua was seated quietly on a chair across from it- his expression was unreadable.

"Ah-daughter. Here you are. I believe the Viscount has something to say to you. I am afraid I left my pipe in the drawing room so I shall return to it. You may both converse here in my study."

And your father briskly left the room, closing the study door behind him and leaving you entirely alone with Viscount Hong.

Oh no.

"Miss Lee?" Viscount Hong asked you gently as you stared frozen at the now closed study door. He stood and stepped closer to you. "Would you like to take a seat?"

You turned to face him sharply.

"What is the meaning of this?" you demanded.

Viscount Hong gave you a small smile. He seemed a little surprised by your sharp reaction but reached for your bare hand- you were not wearing gloves so his soft fingers glided over your knuckles- and gently drew you closer to himself.

"Miss Lee. I suppose the present circumstances make my object in speaking to you here quite evident, but I will still pose the question to you," Joshua said slowly. His hand pressed yours. "Would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

You felt faint. You could not make sense of what was happening.

"But-but…" you stuttered awkwardly. "But why?"

Joshua looked taken aback.

"Why?" he repeated.

"Why would you want to marry me?" you cried.

Joshua let out a small, bewildered laugh. Your question seemed to amuse him. "Well- for the very reasons that any man would want to marry a woman, I suppose. For love! Should I perhaps have started with that instead of directly jumping to marriage?"

"Yes-I mean no-, I mean…" you trailed off and pulled your hand out of his grasp before moving to learn against the study table. "Oh my god, I feel rather faint."

Joshua followed you, concerned.

"Do you need help-"

"I am fine," you brushed him off. Your heart was beating at an unnaturally fast rate and you worried that it might suddenly explode in your chest. "I just… I don't really know what to say…"

Joshua took a step back from you warily.

"Am I to understand from your reaction," he began slowly and carefully, "that my affections are unwelcome?"

"No, not… not unwelcome, exactly, more shocking," you replied hastily. You took a deep breath and tried to calm yourself down and digest this strange situation that you had suddenly been thrust into. "Viscount Hong, do you expect me to believe that out of all the beautiful, talented and rich young ladies of the ton, you are in love with me?"

The Viscount slowly kneeled in front of you and took your hand into his once more, with a soft smile.

"I thought you would have noticed my affections. Perhaps I concealed them better than I imagined. I believed that my admiration for you was quite evident," Joshua said quietly.

"Clearly it was not," you told him firmly. "I have it on quite good authority that there is a running bet in the assembly rooms regarding which young lady the eligible Viscount Hong will propose to by the end of the season, and I can tell you with absolute confidence that not a single person has put their money on me! Even Seokmin has placed his bet on the Duchess of Graham!"

Joshua took a deep breath and nodded.

"I see my mistake."

"Do you?" you asked weakly.

"Yes," Joshua replied simply. He stood up and stepped back from you. "I thought it was prudent to be a little more… guarded about displaying my affections for you in public but I see now that I should not have held back so much. You did not even realise you were being courted."

You stared at him. "I… I do not think anyone realised, Viscount Hong."

Joshua's cheeks flushed pink. "Yes- well. Allow me to remedy my mistake. I will retract my offer for your hand for the moment, Miss Lee, as I see now that I have been hasty. And instead, I seek permission to enter into a formal courtship with you."

"Ah…"

"I will court you for one month before I will ask you once again to marry me," Joshua continued. "And if by then you still do not believe my affections for you are true, I will accept your rejection as gracefully as I can."

You still could not believe it. The image- the thought of yourself marrying Viscount Joshua Hong simply would not manifest completely in your mind. Even when you closed your eyes for a brief moment and tried to picture Viscount Hong at the altar, you still saw him with women more suited to his station- the Duchess of Graham, Miss Jeon, Miss Williams…

"Do you really love me?" you asked him weakly. You hated how exposed and vulnerable you felt in this moment, looking up at this man that was better than you in every conceivable way. "Me? Out of all the more eligible young ladies in the ton… you are quite sure you wish to marry me?"

Joshua stepped forward and seized your hand before bringing it up to his lips. His fingers pressed softly but firmly against your knuckles.

"I am sorry," he told you kindly, his dark eyes shining in the dimly lit study. "If I have made you feel unworthy."

You swallowed. "It is not… it is not that you have made me feel unworthy, only-"

"Yes. I wish to marry you, and only you, Miss Lee. By the end of this month, I shall ensure that you will never again question my love or commitment towards you."

He turned and left your study.

And so began, on a warm June night, your courtship with Viscount Joshua Hong- the most elite and sought-after bachelor in London.

---------------------------------------------------

A/N: As always, thanks for reading and feel free to share your thoughts or inputs!

Since Wonwoo and Joshua were neck-and-neck on the poll as of the time of me posting this, I've decided to go ahead with Joshua since his is shorter/simpler and we'll be doing Wonwoo next.

#seventeen scenarios #seventeen imagines #joshua hong #seventeen fluff #joshua x reader #joshua hong x reader #joshua hong imagines #joshua hong scenarios #hong jisoo #joshua fluff #joshua angst #regency!au #seventeen angst

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covetyou · 7 months

Text

some good friend - pt. 1

ao3 ⋆ main masterlist ⋆ series masterlist part 1 ⋆ part 2 ⋆ part 3

pairing: Tim Rockford x Soft Dom!Sex Worker!f!reader rating: Explicit (18+ only!) warnings: pegging, anal fingering, praise kink, mild glove kink, very mild feminization, masturbation, Tim has body image issues and a bit of an identity crisis, kind of coming untouched, sex work, comfort word count: 7k summary: Nerves were coiling in his belly in a way they typically only did at the end of a big case. There was no judge or jury here, no sentence, no surprise acquittal. There was just your door, and the promise of everything that lay beyond it. And it made him nervous.

A/N: finally, my boy Tim sees the light of day. I've been working on this for a while, and it's been nice to try something a little different. I hope you like it (and someone, anyone, please, stop me from making this a 3 part series too late, it's going to be a series)

divider by @saradika-graphics follow @covetedfics and turn notifications on for updates on future fics

Everything burns. His lungs, his legs, his goddamned feet.

He wasn't made for this. Not any more. His fucking shoes definitely weren't made for this - a fact made more and more obvious with every harsh, sharp, slap of his soles against the ground. Gone were the days of intense foot chases. They'd long since been replaced with hours spent at his desk, in interview rooms, searching the stacks in the archive room. The only saving grace was at the very least he was accustomed to low light - the dimly lit rooms he frequented coming in handy now as he thuds along in the semi-darkness, chasing after someone who is more shadow than man.

The drizzle of a cold October day certainly isn't helping either. He's coated in a fine mist of rain and soaked through to the marrow. His shoes - these fucking shoes - skid on the wet road, threatening injury with each turn of a corner. Every intake of breath blooms pain in his chest, each gasp seeming to draw in more water than air. That is, of course, if the biting chill of the wind doesn't swipe it all out of his mouth first.

He's drowning. Drowning and suffocating and burning all in one, but he can't stop. He can't will his legs to stop, even through the burn. Stopping means he loses, and he cannot lose. Not again. Not with this case.

But then, he turns a corner and the shadow is gone, faded into the darkness of an unlit alley, and out of his grasp once again.

Shit.

The ache is settled well into his bones by the time he gets home in the early hours of the morning. His tie sits damp in his jacket pocket - discarded at the roadside in a fit of rage and stomped into the wet ground, only to be picked up and pocketed a moment later. He liked that tie. His holsters tug uncomfortably at his shoulders, the twist of his body as he was running having shifted them to where they now pinch uncomfortably at his underarms. He can't wait to discard it all, to take off the whole damn lot - and these fucking shoes - and pretend for just one moment that he's not who he is.

So, he begins to shed the skin of Detective Tim Rockford.

The shoes go first. The jacket second. And then he removes his gun, stashing it in its case where it belongs and throwing his holster at his closet, where he'll no doubt struggle to find it again tomorrow. The burning sear of a shower is the last thing left to rid himself of the title that hangs over him, but instead he walks to his office. He needs to be Detective for just a moment longer.

It's tidier and more comfortable in here than it has any right to be. Dark wood, soft leather, neat folders, and blank papers. Of course, it's neat because he's rarely here to use it, preferring to use the space given to him downtown where a plaque sits on his desk telling all and sundry that Detective Tim Rockford works here. Here, in this room, he can be a little less Detective and a little more him.

He flops heavily into his chair, a move he immediately regrets when he feels the relief of taking the weight off his feet. How he'll ever get up from here, he doesn't know. Maybe he'll sleep here. Halfway between Detective and himself, stuck in some weird limbo where he is both and neither all at once. That'll lead to some good dreams.

Tim thinks of you. This was the place for that kind of thing, after all. This office where he is himself and someone else, the perfect parts of a person to be liaising with someone like you. Because that's what it was with you, a liaison. Nothing more, nothing less. And you, everything that you were, were his last chance for some good news before he peeled back the rest of the Detective and became himself for a few blissful hours.

Pulling a card from a drawer, he flips it in his fingers once, then twice before tapping it on his desk. You'd given it to him on his last visit - your address and number emblazoned on the front, both things he no longer needed to see to know, and a small list of services on the other side. Services that he ignored when you'd first pointed them out to him with a wink, but that he'd since spent a long time mulling over and, on occasion, searching in an incognito window of his browser.

With a heavy sigh, he picks up the phone, dialing your number from memory, and waits for you to pick up. Anyone else would be furious with a 4am phonecall, but not you. For a while he thought it was what suited your work best - common sense, and his years on the job, had taught him that illicit activities so often were better suited to darkness than daylight. But he'd seen clients leave your studio in the middle of the day on more than one occasion. No, by this point he simply suspected you didn't sleep at all.

A click of the call connecting, a soft breath down through the line, and there you are, the lilt of your voice ringing through his ear like music.

"Detective Rockford, how nice of you to call. What can I interest you in this fine morning?"

He pinches his nose, card still gripped tightly between his middle fingers. You did this every time, no matter the time of day or night. You were always on, always ready to try to rile him and get into his bloodstream. He'd admonished you once, told you he was only trying to do his job and he expected you to do the same. When you told him you were doing your job, Tim had to admit you got him there. You were both professionals, just in very, very different ways. From then on, he'd learned to appreciate it. Even if it did make him ache sometimes in ways he thought best to ignore.

"You got any news for me?"

You scoff down the phone. A light sound, but he can picture you rolling your eyes with it anyway. "Always so charming, Detective. Diving straight in without any foreplay at all. You can do better than that. Sweeten me up a little before you -"

"Please."

He sounds desperate in a way you haven't heard before. A year into your arrangement and he'd never sounded so bone tired and stressed out. You can even hear the pinch in his brow over the phone, the wrinkles there getting deeper and deeper the longer you knew him.

"It's been quiet, Detective. I doubt I have the names you're after, but a few whispers have been floating around. The case with the cat still causing you problems?"

From the heavy sigh he gives you can tell it's not what he was after, but that it is, indeed, still causing him problems.

"Well, I heard that..."

And so, you divulge your secrets, secrets that aren't really yours to have or to give, but you give them anyway. Whispers and names softly delivered down the phone line where he scribbles them down on a blank sheet of paper, careful not to indent the pages below it.

The pen clatters to the desk when you finish. You both know you haven't given him what he needs, but if Tim's honest with himself he isn't always sure what he needs from you any more. Though, he knows what he wants. Yes, he's frequently made painfully aware of what he wants.

"Anything you need?" he asks, his voice sounding tight with frustration. You can't blame him any more than you can hold back the laugh that trickles from your lips.

"Nothing right now. Here I was thinking that was my line anyway, Detective. The things I could do for you, if you'd let me."

Tim's eyes are drawn to the card again, now face up on the desk beside the scrawl of information you'd just given him. Truth be told, your services are as emblazoned in his mind as the details on the front of the card. Sometimes, like right now, he could barely get that list out of his mind long enough to think straight.

That's the moment when, after a long day at the end of an even longer week, part Detective but part just him, he gives in to what he's been fighting himself for for almost a year, and clears his throat.

"Like what? What... what exactly could you do for me?"

You're caught between surprise and glee, briefly straightening where you lounge in your chair. Softening back into the plush fabric, you dance a finger across your lower lip, wry smile tugging at your mouth as you think of the very many things you could do for him.

"Oh, Detective Rockford. I thought you'd never ask."

Nerves were coiling in his belly in a way they typically only did at the end of a big case. There was no judge or jury here, no sentence, no surprise acquittal. There was just your door, and the promise of everything that lay beyond it.

And it made him nervous.

He was in half a mind to walk away, but it was too late. His knuckles had already rapped against the wood, and you were already flicking the latch on the other side, readying to let him in.

When you do he's stunned, just like he always is when he sees you. This time you're half naked, a thin robe draped over your shoulders and left untied at the front. Beneath it you're wrapped in soft mesh lingerie, your nipples visible through the fabric as you beckon him inside.

The space - your studio - was a simple office unit in an undesirable part of town, but you made it work. As funny as it felt to admit, it was familiar to him now, and there was a comfort in that that was already easing the swell of nerves in his body. It wasn't always this way, of course, that first visit being eye opening both figuratively and literally. Furniture and furnishings that were odd were now somewhat normal, and the soft, rich, scent that permeated the room was one that he now associated only with you and this place you existed within. It was a smell too, he notices, that is so much stronger today than it has ever been on any of his previous visits, and he breathes in deeply, both to savor it and to calm the last of the nerves vibrating in his core.

When you shut the door, closing off the world outside, you stand before him again, looking a picture of sultry confidence as you size him up. This wasn't something that was new. You often stood there, letting your gaze wander up and down his body, lingering in places that made him flush red as you taunted him with flirty quips he'd ignore. This time is no different, and he finds himself mesmerized by the way you toy with the ties on your robe as you eye him, fingers gliding up and down the fabric.

"Are you here on your business, or mine, Detective?" you say with a smile, drawing his gaze from your fingers to your face. It was a long running joke, something you said each and every time he visited you here, despite the answer always being the same. But today, finally, it would be different.

Tim rolls his eyes, just as he always does, but instead of replying with a curt mine, he lets a smile pull at his lips instead. "Yours."

"Music to my ears. And you still want to do this? You're ready?"

You both knew that had a double meaning. In the literal physical sense, he knows he's as ready as he could possibly be. But he still takes a moment to check in with himself, to see if going through with all of it is something that he still wants. If those whispers down the phone, whispers that had quickly turned from flirty promises to guidance, to gasps, to relief, were what he still wanted. Would it be worth it, or was it a momentary blip of weakness and want? But then he remembers that relief once again, the soothing of that ache like sitting down off of pained feet, and can only imagine how much better that will feel here, with you, in this room. He's ready.

Tim nods, prompting you to take another step forward. The smell isn't the room at all, he notices. It's you. The fragrance clinging to your hair or your skin, he's not sure, but so much stronger each time you move.

"Good," you say on your slow approach. Barely a step from him you reach out, tugging on his jacket and straightening his tie before letting your palm rest on his chest. The soft stroke of your fingers does nothing to soothe the rapid hammering of the muscle pumping in his chest cavity, but you suppose it wasn't meant to. You wanted him excited and desperate for it. He'd already shown you how beautiful he could be for you over the phone - all whines and whimpers and yes ma'am's. Now you wanted the real thing.

"Why don't you get all of this off for me."

Before now, Tim had wondered how you started these things - how you went from 0 to seemingly 100 with clients to get them in through the door and out in the allotted time frame. He hadn't expected it to be so quick, or so easy. Maybe he just hadn't expected himself to be so quick, or so easy, but he's tugging at his tie before you even move away to settle against your desk with your ankles crossed.

"That's it, Detective," you prompt, letting your robe slip from your shoulders and pool at your elbows as he stuffs the tie into his pocket. "I want to see all of you."

And he wants you to see all of him. He wants to take off everything that makes him Detective Tim Rockford right in front of you, and have you take control, tell him what to do, make his mind blissfully empty. So, first he kicks off his shoes, then he takes off his jacket. Slowly, his shirt is peeled from his body, the nerves racketing up again with each button. He doesn't look how he did 10 years ago, he was less lean and more soft than he had ever been, the middle aged spread proving to be a fact of life he couldn't escape.

You know what he's thinking as his fingers stall on the last few buttons of his shirt. You'd dealt with these insecurities before, in countless other clients. You weren't immune to similar thoughts either. But, he'd told you he wanted to let go, to give up control with you, so you nod to the remainder of his clothes and prompt again.

"Come now. Let me see."

Tim's fingers work quickly over the last buttons and pull the shirt from his broad frame just as quickly, giving no time for the nerves to take root. You voice the sound of your smile the moment his shirt is discarded and he looks up to see your appraisal. Each button had drawn your eyes down his chest, to the soft swell of his belly, and further still to the growing bulge in the front of his pants. Tall and broad and beautiful, the mass of man in front of you had the power to catch your eye even fully clothed, but now, shirtless with the promise of more on the horizon, you couldn't ignore the thrill at seeing so much of his tanned skin, littered with freckles and a soft smattering of hair.

His belt is unbuckled and off, and his fingers are pulling open the button of his pants and his fly. He doesn't look at you again. He can't right now - if he does he'll choke up and stop himself, feeling entirely inadequate offering this body of his to you. Pushing down his pants, down past soft thighs and strong calves, he steps out of them, taking his socks with them with each step, before nervously scratching at his belly.

Only then, does he look back up at you. You're enraptured, and have already pushed back off your desk, circling him to look at every inch of his body. You'd dimmed the lights slightly, as you always did for client sessions, but even in the soft lamplight he looked stunning. Your fingers trace the swell of his bicep, across his shoulder and the jut of his shoulder blade. A shudder runs down his spine as your fingers dance across it, down to the dimples at his back and over his hip before you round him again where your fingertips rest on his soft belly and the trail of hair there.

"You've been hiding all of this from me for how long, Detective?" you whisper, letting your fingers glide down further and further with each word. "It makes me wonder what else you're hiding."

Tim's cock twitches in his boxers, the thin fabric straining more and more with each passing moment under your gaze. He'd never felt so seen, so appraised, before. The way you looked at him was so easy, the shine in your eye so bright as he peeled back each layer.

"You still want this?"

It's what he said he'd wanted. Days ago now, but he'd said he wanted it and he did. He does. He swallows thickly, desperate to get moisture back into his mouth, nodding a croak of a yes.

At that, you slide the tip of your finger into the waistband of his boxers and pull, stretching the elastic a fraction before releasing, pinging it sharply against his skin.

"Then get these off too, Detective."

His boxers are on the floor a second later, his cock springing free semi-hard between his legs. Raising your hands to your face, you gasp in faux shock, hiding your very real delight behind your hands as you take in his entire naked form.

"Oh, Detective Rockford. I'm disappointed. After all this time you've been hiding that from me?" you gasp, and while Tim can't help but roll his eyes, his cock betrays him and stiffens even more at your words. You'd been through it all with him. Your services, yes, but also specifically what he wanted from you, some of which you'd discovered together on the phone that morning. This was one of those things - a thing you'd discovered on a whim, but something you both knew he would like before the words left your lips. There was a reason he was asking you for this and nobody else - Tim knew the specific brand of sordid you dealt in and, more than anything, he trusted you. Unfortunately for him, you planned on keeping exactly to your word from that call and, guiding your fingers down his bare chest, you tease closer and closer to his length.

"Tsk. Such a shame I won't be playing with it today."

Tim groans, a gasp of a thing he cuts short with a pinch of his lips. He's frowning again too, but nods, knowing that what he came here for wasn't that, but also very aware of the weight of the words you used. Not today, but not never.

Then, your robe is off and you're guiding him to the bed, where he lowers himself and leans back, watching your form as it retreats into the other room. He looks down, down at the body you'd just spent minutes looking at and enjoying, and wonders what you see that he doesn't. All he knows is he's trusted your word for as long as he's known you, and it's no different now. Whatever you see in him, you at least believe it to be true, and that alone makes it easier for him to believe himself. Before he can figure much or anything else out, you're sauntering back into the room.

In your hands you hold a few things. None of them should be surprising to him, but he still sucks in a sharp breath when he sees it - the strap you'd picked out just for him. You'd told him about it over the phone, said that you had the perfect one for him, that you could picture him beneath you taking it, moaning and shaking as you fucked him, and now there it was, exactly as you described. This was never something he felt able to ask for with anyone else, his ex-wife especially. It's true he was always married more to his job than to her, but even in the privacy of their own bedroom he had secrets and wants he could never share with her - she made that much clear early on. With you, he didn't even need to mention it first for you to suggest it to him, didn't even need to feel the heat of shame in his cheeks as he struggled to find the words for what he wanted, because there you were already with all the answers.

You settle everything beside him, letting him see the soft, slender, curve of the dildo up close for the first time, and pass him a bottle of water. Tim takes it, grateful that once again that it was another thing he didn't have to ask for, and cracks open the lid, taking a deep gulp of the cold liquid before setting it out of the way. Another day he'd wonder how it got to this - how on earth Tim Rockford got so used to suffering in silence that even thirst wasn't something he'd remedy until he was desperate. But, right now all he knows is the heat of your body and the smell of your skin as you kneel next to him on the bed, looking down at him with a smirk on your lips.

"Usually I ask people how they'd like it," you whisper, stroking gently down his neck, "but I think we both know you'd like it on your knees, Detective." You twirl your finger in the air, signalling for him to move, and like the good little thing he is, he shifts onto his hands before crawling forward slightly to perch on all fours on the bed.

You think he looks glorious; he feels so exposed - entirely naked for you while you're draped in that thin mesh he can see right through. He doesn't want to think about how he looks like this, on his knees with his ass on total display, his cock hanging low and, already, starting to leak precum.

Blunt nails drag down his back, softly scraping down his ass cheeks and the backs of his thighs. He shudders. You can see his cock where it bobs between his legs, and his balls where they hang softly just beneath the cleft of his cheeks. If he were a different client, maybe you'd give in and drag your nails across the soft flesh of them too, cup them in your palm and give them a firm squeeze, but you resist. Whatever this is doing to you, you'll deal with later. For now, this is for him and that desperate man, the Detective, who had all but begged you for information down the phone.

Grabbing at the small selection of things you'd dumped next to him, you get ready. Tim watches, eager eyes looking as you pull a black nitrile glove down your hand and snap it around you wrist, wiggling your fingers at him when you spot his gaze.

"I can tell you're excited," you say with a look down to his ass where his cock bounces hard against his belly with a tense of his muscles. "You're so ready for this too, aren't you? You've been waiting so long..."

Guiding your ungloved hand down his ass, you squeeze, gripping the flesh and pulling him apart, exposing him to your gaze. "Very pretty."

Tim huffs a laugh, not believing for a second that he is pretty at all, let alone like this, or there.

"What? You don't think you're pretty, all bent over and exposed for me, Detective? I'd argue you've never looked better."

"Right. Is this how you get all your information? Your clients must tell you all sorta things, huh? Vulnerable like this."

A swift, sharp slap is delivered to his right ass cheek, making him gasp as you tut and soothe the sting with your palm. "Ah-ah, Detective, you're off the clock. No work talk. We're here on my business now, not yours."

"Fu- Never off the clock, not in my line of work."

"And that's exactly why you're here, sweetie."

"...Yes ma'am."

There's a small delighted giggle that you just can't hold back, a sound that makes him flush, before you speak again. "Polite and pretty. Are you ready for me, Detective?"

It's then he realizes that your hand hasn't stopped its slow, steady caress of his ass cheeks, pushing and pulling him apart as you watch the tension leave his shoulders. He nods, trying not to brace himself for whatever is coming first, not hearing the click of a lube bottle through the blood rushing in his ears, but definitely feeling the cool trickle of it when it drips onto his asshole.

"That's it," you say, soothing with your ungloved hand, as your gloved one comes down to stroke the pucker of his ring. "We both know you're familiar with this feeling, Detective. Are you going to let me in here?"

The wet swipe of your finger between his cheeks almost feels like it could be cool, cold tongue with how you swirl it around and around his asshole. He tries not to curl his toes, and manages not to until he can't help but beg, a small please falling softly from his plush lips, and you immediately push, sinking the tip of your finger into his ass.

Tim groans, gripping the sheets in an effort not to surge forward and away from the gentle probe of your finger.

"Make all the noise you need to, Detective."

"Fuck."

Your finger steadily sinks into him, drawing out and in to collect more lube as you drizzle it onto his hole.

"Remember how this feels?"

He remembers. Remembers the crackle of your voice over the phone line as you told him to finger his ass. How his hands had scrambled to turn on speakerphone, the other still wrapped around his cock, jerking weakly as you whispered filthy encouragement down the line. Before even that, he remembers the nights spent in his own bed, concocting his own fantasies while he fucked his fist and fingers in tandem.

Except, your fingers feel so much different from his own, can reach places his cannot, and he's groaning with his head hung low between his shoulders before you're even knuckle deep.

Curling this way and that, you feel him from the inside out. Soothing him with a hand on his back, you can feel the deep breath he takes just as the tip of your finger collides with a spot inside him he was all too familiar with, massaging back and forth until he's a groaning mess.

"Oh, well that's a pretty sound, Detective. It sounds to me like you want another."

If he closes his eyes, he can see it, see the black of your gloved hand curled into a fist as your index finger stretches his hole. He can see already as you pull out a little, unfurl another finger, and slide it next to the first, ready to push into him again.

And he takes it, letting out a shuddering gasp, as your fingers fuck into his ass once again, scissoring in him before pushing down and beginning a slow curl against that spot again.

"There. That was easy. I think someone is enjoying this quite a bit, aren't you, Detective?"

There's no denying it, he is. The feel of your hand making him want to buckle into a heap on the bed already and you'd barely even started.

"Yeah. It's - ah fuck - it's good. That's - uh - not fair."

You'd been curling and prodding against his prostate as he tried to talk, making him garble words at you as you watch his cock get more and more engorged between his thighs. "What's not fair?" you ask, with a firmer press down into the spot, and you relish in the deep gravelly moan that grumbles from his chest, forcing his elbows to drop down onto the mattress.

When his hips buck forward, you place a steadying hand on his back, stroking soothing circles with your bare fingers over the dimples in his skin whilst your gloved ones curl into the spot again and again. Part of him is longing to reach down and grab his cock, to jerk it and come all over his fist with your fingers buried in his ass, but that's not what he's here for. Each time he opens his eyes he's made aware of what he's here for by the strap that still lays next to him. If he comes too soon, he's scared that'll be it over, the relief he was really seeking from you still totally out of reach by his own failure. He couldn't, wouldn't, fail at this too.

"Just look at you, Detective. You're getting so wet already." He is. He can feel it. His cock is dripping, beads of precum collecting on his tip and threatening to make a mess of the sheets below. Nodding and groaning and squeezing his eyes shut seem to be all he can do already, feeling like a total mess of a man with your voice like honey trickling into his ear. "So good. I think you can take one more finger. That's it, just one more. Good. Good boy."

He preens, back arching with the praise, cock definitely dripping onto the sheets now, three of your fingers curling and thrusting into his ass. He throbs, the ache of arousal thrumming through him with no relief, just building and building and building with nowhere to go, because you don't let it. You control it, each press of your fingers still so achingly slow that it can make him drip and ache but never explode.

A thin sheen of sweat is coating his body, his legs shaking, forehead pressed into the cool sheets, groans falling wantonly from his mouth, by the time you gingerly pull your fingers from him. That in itself feels like a relief, he thinks. Even though he's still painfully hard at least, for one moment, he's not being worked up and up to an edge you won't quite let him over just yet.

But the strap beside him is gone when he looks up, pushing up on shaky hands to look around for you again. Now, it sits on your hips, straps pulled taught over the mesh of your lingerie. You're pulling a condom over the length of dildo, rolling it down to the base, your glove discarded somewhere he can't see. His mouth is dry again, so he reaches for the water, swallowing deeply, wiping away an errant drop from the scruff of his beard.

He can't stop looking. Between your face, your beautiful face, your scantily clad body, your hands and those fingers that had just been inside him, the cock between your legs. He's entranced. It takes a gentle hand on his shoulder for him to notice you're talking to him.

"Look at you, Detective," you hum down to him, and all he can think is Yes. Look at me. Please. Here he was, stripped bare as a man could be, seen by you in ways he'd never been seen. And that name - a taunt coming from you that he longed for rather than loathed. Each tease of Detective a reminder that with you he could be both and neither all at once, just as he always was.

He reaches for you then. Slowly. Delicately. Fingers bridging the gap between you. Usually you'd step back, move away from grasping hands when permission wasn't granted. But, you let him touch, his fingers resting on your mesh covered hip and stroking you. It's the first time he's ever touched you, and it's so soft. You're so soft.

"You're ready for it, aren't you?" you ask, your eyes lazily dragging down to the strap between your legs where his follow.

Without word, and avoiding the mess already splattered on the sheet, he moves back to all fours, his hand leaving you cold. Slicking more lube across the strap, you kneel behind him, palming his ass with both hands, rubbing soft circles down his thighs as you gently rut against the crevasse of his ass.

"Do you trust me, Detective?"

It's a stupid question - stupid because you already know the answer, and so does he.

"You're kidding, right?" he says in disbelief, looking around to see the coy smile on your face.

"Humor me."

"Of course I do."

With his eyes still on you, you press forward, hand steadying the dildo to slip the tip into his slick asshole.

"Oh. That's it. Look at me when I fuck your ass. That feels so good doesn't it?"

Tim pants, nodding as you bear forward. The strap is barely thicker than your three fingers, but his rim still stretches and pulls as you breach him, slowly, steadily, until the entire length is buried in his ass.

"There we go. That's it. I'm all the way in. You take an ass fucking so well, Detective. Are you sure you haven't done this before?" With another roll of your hips he's gasping again, dropping his face to the sheet. The heat of his thighs are against yours and you know, you just know, that his cock is straining, his balls begging to empty already.

"There we are. That's it. You can take it. Oh, good boy. You like that don't you. You like being a good boy."

With his cheek is pressed to the mattress, you can see nothing but the pinched look of ecstasy on his face. It's boiling in his veins too, the heat spreading up his back and burning his cheeks. If he opens his eyes he'll see you, looking down with intent at his ass as you slowly roll your hips into him, and the thought alone makes him groan, brings him so close to coming that he's scrambling for purchase on the bed again, desperate gasps rattling out of him. The cloying scent of you is all over him - stuck in his lungs like molasses, each deep breath in of you coinciding with each slap of your hips against his ass until desperation turns to pleading.

"Please. P-please. Fuck. Please."

"Please what?" you say, looking around at him. And that's when you see his cock, angry and weeping, splattering cum all over your sheets. You hadn't felt him come yet, there'd been no tensing of his muscles or twitching of his cock, just a steady stream of precum dripping from him like a leaky faucet. "Oh, look at that. You're making quite the mess, aren't you, sweetie? Are you going to clean that up? Hm? Or will I have to bill the city for my laundry?"

"Oh, fu-," he pants, and you feel a shiver trickle down his back at the empty threat, his palms pressing harder into the mattress beneath him as his shoulders draw back. He's going to come. You don't even need to move, you could just talk to him in that voice of yours, call him a good boy and tell him how dirty he is and he'd be gone, skyrocketing to a place he'd never been and making a glorious mess of everything.

"What was that?" You slow down the roll of your hips, drawing him back from that edge you'd been dangling him so deliciously over.

"No. No. Don't - Fuck."

"Then you'll have to clean up your mess."

You swipe your finger through the cum that has steadily dripped from his cock and onto the sheet below, and lean forward to bring it to his lips, pressing your hips further and further into his ass. There's a sticky sheen of sweat on his back that slicks you together, and you can't resist. You kiss him. Soft lips pressing into the muscle of his shoulder, waiting for that moment he parts his lips in a voiceless moan to slip your finger inside. His tongue laves around your digit, tasting himself on the salt of your skin and he groans, vibrating desperate sounds from his chest to yours as you fuck so deep he's seeing stars.

"That's it, that's a good boy," you coo, dragging your finger from his mouth, leaving a trail of saliva across the scruff of his cheek.

"It's such a shame I have no use for your cock when it looks so pretty, Detective," You say, lifting your leg to fuck more deeply into him. "Look at it, all drippy and useless. You're going to come, aren't you? Even without touching your cock, you're going to come and make even more of a mess."

"Yes. Fuck, yes. Don't stop."

The steady slap of your hips picks up, and you're panting with exertion now too. You could've had him coming in five minutes, but that was no fun for you. You'd waited too long for this not to drag it out, not to see how long he could hold off for you, how much of a desperate mess he could be before he was begging for release. This was it. His limit. You'd found it, and his groans were suddenly impossible to ignore, shooting white hot heat into your own core, making you feel slick with want as you fucked him. You need him to come, before your need for more friction clouds your brain and you need to slip your hand between your own legs before he even leaves.

"Such a pretty ass to ruin. Come for me, Detective. Oh, fuck. Come for me."

He stops breathing. He thinks he's died. He has to have. You think you've killed him. But then his whole body tenses and he groans out a sob, biting sheets and spitting them out over and over as he comes, and comes, and comes. You don't stop, each shuddering sob of a gasp spurring you on until he's milked dry and almost prone on the mattress.

"That's it. That's it. You did it. Good boy. Well done, Detective. Well done."

He feels so soft. His bones must have turned to dust and spurted out of his cock with that final thrust of the strap in his ass. He's never been this weightless, never been this carefree. There's not an ache in him, just pure bliss, and he's so relieved he could cry.

And you're there. Pulling out of him slowly, wiping down his back, his thighs, with a damp towel, cooling him before you dry him with another, bringing water to his lips for him to drink. Pushing his hair back from his forehead, you guide him onto his back, letting him lie down and take a moments rest you know the man wouldn't take any other time. You're fairly certain he doesn't sleep. Detective Rockford works too hard because he cares too much, you know that. And you also know he doesn't care for himself. That is why he's here, even if he'd never say so himself.

"Up you get, sweetie. It's cold. Let's get something on you," you're whispering to him all too soon. Tim's lost, the concept of time gone from his body entirely, but he supposes it has been too long, his time is up. He only paid for an hour of your time, and even that seemed much more valuable than the price you'd put on it. He should go.

When he sits up he's lethargic, reaching for his clothes as he shuffles to the end of the bed. He doesn't know you're holding a robe out for him, strap discarded. He doesn't see the concern in your eyes because he suddenly can't meet them. "Should get going, I guess."

"No. You shouldn't. Stay."

Tim looks up to you then, seeing you wrapped and fully covered for the first time in the year he's known you. You're no more on the job right now than he is, he realizes, blinking in confusion at the robe you toss next to him.

"Look, I've taken up enough of your time, I don't want to overstep -"

"I'm not asking you to stay as a client, Detective. I'm asking you to stay as a friend. Stay. Talk to me." And you say it because god knows you mean it. You want him to stay and you want him to talk as much as you know he needs it, that gap he'd bridged with his hand now being bridged by you, and your simple request that he stay.

"Some friend to have."

"A good friend to have, Tim.”

“- I didn't mean - I meant me, I -”

“The point still stands either way," you say. And you mean that too. "Stay."

And that's it. There he is. Stripped back, just like he wanted. No more Detective. Just Tim. And there you are. Sitting on the blanket draped sofa, looking him straight in the eye. You don't need to look down to see him, and he doesn't need to look up to see you.

Grabbing the robe, Tim drapes it around himself, walking on unsteady feet toward you, the mess of the sheets and his life forgotten for one more second.

"Decaf? Might not have all the answers. But I do have coffee. And that's a start."

"Yeah," he says as he sits beside you. "Yeah, that's a start."

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